Solstice
by lunaaltare
Summary: You can only stare at the moon so long before it howls back. AU. [Discontinued due to the state of the show]
1. Paradoxical

***Edited: 1/5/16**

* * *

_**solstice**_

_paradoxical_

* * *

**_i._**

_Abbie ran a hand through her hair, completely worn before evening rolled around. _Humidity and sweat stuck to her like a second skin; mosquitos taking enough blood from her arms and legs to donate. The environmental conditions were less than optimal with this midsummer heat, but alas. Duty calls when trouble arises, and apparently there truly is no rest for the wicked.

The walkie-talkie buzzed to life in her hand, knocking her out of her heat-induced stupor.

"_Abbie?"_ her partner tried again. She felt a faint tickle in her ear and quickly swatted away whatever bug decided to inconvenience her.

"I'm here, Luke."

"_Did'ja find anything yet?"_ She rolled her eyes for must've been the umpteenth time that day—hell, hour even. Luke was even less thrilled than her to be in the middle of Westchester County woods on yet another futile search for a missing person. Her partner loathed the outdoors more so than her—or anyone she knew actually—but his eagerness to be over and done with this search was vexing. They had a job to do, and if there was a slimmer of a chance to understand what the hell's been going on lately, she was gonna' take it.

"No, Luke. If I found anything I would've told you; now _please_…stop radioing me." Perhaps she was being harsh, but she's since lost her forbearance when she jammed her foot into an ant pile half an hour ago. The forest was no place for anyone to be; she couldn't fathom how her friends and coworkers went camping for pleasure.

"_Geez, okay." _She'd probably apologize later, but for now, she had shit to do.

Abbie drew the folded paper from her back pocket, reopening it and reading over the victim's credentials once again.

Her name was Sharon Carroll; she was a proud mother of two little girls, coached soccer over summer, had a husband and a job as an elementary school teacher. She volunteered her Sunday's at a soup kitchen and helped fundraise Christmas parades. Everyone the police interrogated said she was happy with her life, loved her children to death and took her job seriously—that she lived the picture-perfect suburban life. And because of this, the police couldn't answer one question.

Why did she disappear?

Frustrated, she crammed the paper back into her pocket. Sharon wasn't the first to disappear into thin air lately. In fact, there's been a random, startling spike of disappearances in New York these past months. Hundreds have vanished into the night with few similarities thinly stringing these cases together.

The generally upsetting connection was that they were all young. Mrs. Carroll was the oldest one to disappear—for she was twenty-seven—considering most of the people who went missing were between twelve and eighteen.

Then there was the fact that all of them were healthy, smart children. Whoever was causing these disappearances truly chose the cream of the crop. Young athletes, honor students, academic geniuses, adolescents with little to no health problems or allergies. This clued in the detectives that whoever was the cause of this did their research and had access to private information.

Though, most baffling of all the evidence was the crime scene—because there was none. In the three-hundred-forty-one cases of missing children and adults, the investigators couldn't find any signs of a struggle. No broken vases, no blood, no scattered objects. It's just as if they just decided to leave and walk out by their own will—but the parents and friends always told detectives _"x wouldn't do that_." Mrs. Carroll's case was hardly different.

The entire situation made her head pound. Abbie forced herself to stop thinking about it and focus on fending off mosquitos and lord knows what else lived in these woods.

She was lost in her thoughts again when something blue caught her eye a couple of yards ahead. She frowned, walking closer until she could make out the object. It was a night slipper. She licked her lips and swept the ground with her eyes, looking for the other pair to no avail. Mrs. Carroll lived only a couple of minutes away from the woods; it was entirely possible that the slipper could've been hers.

Hope sparked in her chest and she gnawed her bottom lip in anticipation. If they could find her, she could help solve the upsurge of missing-persons cases. Possibly even explain what happened the night she disappeared to give investigators some ground to work with. Abbie called her name loudly, but to her utter disappointment, a loud flutter of wings was her only response. She swore under her breath.

Time ticked by quickly. The sun since moved from the center of the sky and was dipping dangerously low behind the trees. A brilliant golden glow enchanted the thick coppices and bathed the earth in orange. Hadn't she been so consumed by her disconcerting thoughts she might've taken a moment to marvel the sight. However, she was no longer permitted the time, for she still had yet to find the other pair. At this point, she was tromping aimlessly around in wide circles for a _slipper_. A _fucking slipper_.

She was going off on a hunch, a baseless theory. If she was wrong—which she's been several times before—she wasted away an entire day's worth of searching.

The thickets rustled before her. Her breath hitched.

_Mrs. Carroll?_

What emerged from the bushes wasn't the missing woman, unfortunately. Instead, a wolf meandered out ahead of her. She swallowed audibly. Adrenaline surged through her veins, but she didn't run. Running would be pointless; wolves definitely had the upper hand by a long shot. So instead, she stood completely still and hoped he couldn't hear her heart hammering against her ribcage.

_Son of a bitch…_

Abbie didn't even know wolves lived in these parts of New York—hell, if she'd known that earlier, she definitely wouldn't have split up with Luke and the rest of the search party to cover more ground. She didn't need him to protect and coddle her, but _shit_ she'd be lying if she wasn't terrified of the brawny fiend in front of her.

The wolf—thank Christ—did nothing. He didn't so much as acknowledge her presence as he skirted a couple of inches past her pant leg. The wolf's nose was close to the ground, ears flattened against his skull—his presence was intimidating, but she assumed there was something wrong with this one. His detached eyes, lackluster umber fur and lifeless amble couldn't have meant anything good, but she wasn't going to confront him and see what's wrong; that's for sure. Abbie remained still a few moments after he disappeared before continuing again.

The next time she stumbled across the wolf, she wasn't as fortunate as the first time around. It probably had something to do with her crashing into him when he popped out of the undergrowth, but she chose to ignore that part for now. The abstracted daze was gone and replaced with something electric. Something wild, dejected and addled as he snapped and snarled at her.

If she wasn't so terrified, she almost would've sorry for the poor thing.

But nonetheless, she was mortified and her body left no room for pity. Her options slimmed down from the first time around, seeing that she was backing herself into a crevice between two great oaks and the wolf was advancing. Her hands fumbled around with her holster in a frantic search for her gun.

_I swear if I left it in the squad car—_

The growling stopped. She blinked.

He took a tentative step back before darting away as quickly as he came. She skimmed her surroundings for the bigger, badder creature that scared him off, but there was nothing. Nothing but her. Hands trembling and blood still rushing in her ears, she decided that she had enough of the forest today.

The third time she saw him, she knows if there was a God, he hated her. Him, His disciples and Christ combined must've had something rotten for her that day. She almost let out a humorless laugh, but dread had her body paralyzed and wracked with nerves. Third time's a charm, right? 'Fucking felt like it; at this point she'd probably just let him eat her—she was tired, it was late and she realized a couple of minutes ago the search party up and left without her.

Today was chockfull of surprises, but the one he had in his mouth was the most unanticipated. There he sat in front of her—tail curled neatly around his paws, previously unkempt fur smoothed back and groomed—with the missing slipper held slack between his teeth. The other one laid on its side next to his foot.

It takes her a minute. It really does.

When her mind started working its way out of its nonplussed state, the wolf already abandoned both shoes on the ground and was nudging her leg with his nose. She stared at him before rubbing her eyes, blinking a couple of times. This had to be a load of bullshit; a product of exhaustion, blood loss, and stress over the past couple weeks coming back to bite her on the ass. But when Abbie glanced at him—he who now pushed her leg impatiently—she realized that he was indeed _real_ and this was really _happening_.

_Fuck_.

He pushed her again—hard this time—and she numbly stumbled forward. He let out a huff of air through his nose, trotting out in front of her. He made it only a couple of steps before he swung his head around and eyed her expectantly.

_He wants me to follow him_, she figured as ran her hands through her frizzy, knotted hair. Fuck it, what'd she have to lose at this point?

So Abbie—esteemed lieutenant, respected citizen, and overall rational person—found herself maneuvering through the woods with a wolf in the dark of the night. It was completely nonsensical—and sounded an awful lot like something a free spirit hippy would say after an acid trip—but yet here she was.

The wolf was a couple of yards away when she heard him yip. Despite the throbbing pain in her feet from her shoes, Abbie picked up the pace to a light trot. She spent an unreasonable amount of time in the forest today—whatever he was calling her for, it better have been worthwhile.

She moved a wildberry bush out of her way, swinging her flashlight around. He barked. She spotted the source of his distress.

She nearly threw up on the spot.

It was a body, or rather what was left of it. Every limb was mangled into unrecognizable pieces. The ribcage was completely exposed and organs it used to hold were gone. And if not that, then it was part of the slop stewing inside of the torso. This was animalistic. Deep claw marks raked and lacerated the entire body, some type of goo or slobber soused around and inside of the wounds.

The person had white skin and bloodied blonde hair; she immediately thought of Mrs. Carroll. But this person was too wide and too short to be her, the gray streaks along this person's roots a clear sign whoever's body this was, they were too old to be the missing person's.

She forced her hands to steady and gripped her phone, calling in for back up.

The wolf let out a deep growl, his nose slickened with the mystery goo, and hightailed back into the coverts.

**_ii._**

The next day, Abbie woke up sweating and twitching in her bed. Sweat rolled from her temple to her jaw and her stomach lurched menacingly. Her heart pounded so hard it could've broken right through her chest.

She would say she felt like shit, but that was a severe understatement.

It felt as if someone had taken a sledgehammer and slogged it straight through her skull. It felt as if she'd ran an entire marathon while simultaneously being warmed over by the fucking sun. It felt as if—

She ran straight for the toilet.

Abbie's seen bodies several times before; she was a cop after all. She's seen people stabbed, shot and ran over, but never filleted like a goddamn fish. She's never seen somebody mutilated with such fervor she couldn't even imagine who or _what _did that to the body.

Her stomach leaped again and she retched out whatever was left from yesterday midmorning.

When her stomach finally calmed, she couldn't even bring herself to drink anything, let alone eat. She had to force liquids down her throat along with two Advil pills and an aspirin for good measure.

Abbie stripped down from her clothes and stared at her body, peppered and inflamed with mosquito and ant bites. She had light rings around her eyes, her face sheened with sweat and her hair falling limply around her shoulders. It was unsettling that in this edgy, filthy state, she most resembled her mother. The thought made her throat tighten.

She scrubbed all of the grime from yesterday off with a rag before letting the warm water pour down her face. She ran her fingers through her silky hair and messaged her scalp with the shampoo. The bliss that the shower gave made her run the water until it turned cold. It was only when it started feeling like she was getting doused in slush did she hop out the shower.

She still had to go to work today, much to her demise. After the long stressful night Abbie endured yesterday, Irving would usually let her have this day off, but he couldn't do that now. Resources were being stretched thin over these disappearances. Especially after finding a body yesterday, she could only imagine what sort of outrageous work hours she'd put in.

The day plodded on for hours at the station. It was exceptionally busy, hectic and loud. She swore the phone rung every two minutes and the paperwork piling on her desk was going to tip over and fall. People scurried back and forth in front of her office window, an annoyed or frustrated scowl fixed on their faces. It wasn't the day for anyone—another three people went missing and the investigators were scrambling for purchase.

Abbie yearned for the day this sick son of a bitch would be caught. Them and all of their goons, because the statewide peril simply couldn't be caused by one person.

Six o'clock hit and Abbie was already out of the door. She couldn't take another minute in there, or she swore she was going to lose her shit. Usually, she enjoyed working in the office. She lived for the euphoria of catching baddies and throwing them in jail. She loved helping people find justice and making them feel secure in their homes.

But she couldn't do any of that today. She could only sit around fruitlessly and watch the children go missing; watch the list of missing people inflate, wondering what child would go next.

Nathaniel Baggins, Rachael Myer, and Samantha Pauper—they were this day's batch of unfortunate adolescents. She had to go through the same song and dance with their parents, lies leaden on her tongue nearly every day now. That they'd be found, that the police were trying their hardest, that maybe their child's case was different—but it wasn't. It never was.

When you look at that proliferated list of missing children in this case, you stop seeing individuals. You stop seeing faces and names and hopes and dreams until all you're left with is numbers. Statistics that remained invariable throughout these entire two months. More solid than their hope—more solid than their prayers—were these numbers; and what they told her was that not a single one of them have been found. Their children were the same.

Abbie almost tore her car door off its hinges with the sheer force she exerted. Fuck, she didn't know how long she could keep up with this, but she couldn't quit now. The body had been sent to forensics for identification, seeing that there was no way anybody could classify it just by looking. This had to be related; she felt that same premonition as she did the day before. She knew there was something for her in that forest that day and there _was_. That body had to be connected someway, somehow.

When Abbie got home, the first thing she did was heat up the Chinese food from two days ago. Not eating this morning was a mistake, and it was an even rasher one to skip her lunch break to finish paperwork. She was emotionally and physically drained today and that half-empty bottle of bourbon was starting to look better than life itself.

She didn't even try to put up a fight as she reached over and took a swig straight from the glass.

She went over to her microwave and grabbed her food. She plopped down on her old couch and flipped the TV onto whatever shoddy, dramatic film aired on _LMN _that night. It only took her thirty minutes into _Celebrity Ghost Stories_ before she was out like a bulb.

When she woke up again, it was to the obnoxious vibrating in her back pocket rather than her alarm clock. She rubbed her eyes and snatched her phone, looking at the number through a blurry vision. She wanted to bury her face into a pillow and scream until the sun came up. It was Irving. The only time he ever called her personal phone was when there was bullshit arising at an unholy time.

She answered the phone, pressing the warmed device to her ear.

"Yeah?"

_"We have two more bodies,_" He said, his voice clipped and gruff. The only thing she appreciated about his calls were how concise they were. The last thing she'd want at ass o'clock in the morning is some long-winded report. _"We need you to the scene as soon as you can get there."_

She slid off the couch and stretched. Duty called. "Where?"

_"Putnam County, Phillipstown." _That was at least an hour's drive away from Westchester. She yanked off her sleep shorts and threw them somewhere in her room, looking for a pair of jeans.

"Address?"

_"I'll send it to you."_ And with that, the phone call ended. Not even bothering to change from her ridiculous unicorn print night shirt—a present from Jenny several years ago—she threw her jacket over her shoulders, jammed her feet into a pair of boots and headed right out. Hair be damned, she was investigating a murder, not auditioning to be a runway model.

The roads were pretty clear, the occasional semi-truck passing her as she made it further out into her county outskirts. The sky was still bleak and gray littered with thick, opaque clouds. It was gonna' rain like a bitch today.

When she finally made it to the address Frank had given her, she'd thought she must've made a wrong turn somewhere. Or that maybe her GPS was fucking up for the first time since she's got it. But alas, she didn't make the wrong turn. The house the bodies were found at was just in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by acres of thick trees and plains. Livestock huddled around in clusters looking like earthy blotches against the dense grass. The only pointer that she was going in the right direction was the jarring, one-way road that led her right to it. If not for that, she would've sworn she took a trip straight to Bumfuck Nowhere, Kentucky. That, or into some cheesy horror novel seeing how a light fog seemed to roll in out of nowhere.

Abbie took her bottom lip between her teeth and bit gingerly into the flesh, a habit she needed to get out of. She passed a couple of low-hanging trees before the house rolled into view. She pulled up and parked outside of its gate. Abbie slid out of her car and waited for the officers on the other side to open it for her. She craned her neck, taking in the structure before her.

The house was huge, so vast to the point it was only something short of a mini-mansion or a manor. Gothic styled gates surrounded the land like a sullen fortress, high and sharp with brambles resting precariously at its base. The entire front of the house was tiled with cracked cobblestone bricks, weeds and thorns overtaking the stone. Unkempt hedge bushes lined the perimeter along with an assortment of weeds and wildflowers.

In the center, a tarnished, marble fountain stood unwaveringly. Three little angles donning harps and an unreadable, pensive expression mounted in the middle of the thick, murky fountain water. Trees loomed over and around the towering building, leading her to believe that the back led straight to the woods.

The house itself was also filled with grandeur, but was in an abandoned, derelict state just like the rest of the land. Vines and weeds ravaged the brick walls like thick, green rivulets. A chunk of the roof sunk in dangerously low and several areas was missing portions of tiles. Nonetheless, there was a hauntingly captivating lure to it that Abbie couldn't deny as she walked fully onto the property.

A detective lead Abbie to where most of the officers huddled. Red and blue lights skittered across the scene. They were gathered around a hedge bush at a corner of the land. Almost as if sensing her, Irving swiveled around and met her eyes with a detached stare.

Something was wrong. Personal.

He wiped his hand over his face and took in a deep breath air, body shuddering lightly despite the humidity.

He was spooked. Irving was _never _spooked.

"What happened?" She asked, feeling sweat start to prick at her neck and forehead. Irving waved his arm in the direction of the group.

"Take a look yourself." His voice cracked. She swallowed.

Her legs felt cumbersome, but she strode regardless. The cluster of investigators parted for her.

_Oh, fuck._

This time, it was a man. She could see his face, unlike the other one. Dissimilar to last time, however, there was nobody. Just a head jammed on one of the many spikes lining the house. His jaw was slack, his eyes were wide open as if he was slaughtered right before he had a chance to scream. There was the same slobber oozing down his stumped neck. She took a couple of steps back, nearly colliding with the officer behind her.

"Captain!" her voice is an octave short of being shrill. He knew this man, she could tell. Irving was always disturbed by odd murders, but this one? This one struck a nerve for him. "_Captain!_" She sped up to catch his retreating figure.

"_What_?!" she didn't even care that he yelled at her.

"Who is he?" She wrapped her jacket closer to her body. It was so muggy, but chills raced up her spine like an electric current. He worked his jaw a few times. Abbie could see the lie die on his tongue. He closed his eyes tightly, lips pursed into a thin line.

"James Raymond, Macey's soccer coach. His son—_her_ best friend—disappeared two weeks ago." He stopped for a second. His eyes are glassy. "Whenever I couldn't make it to her games, he'd be there to fill in my place. He made sure he recorded every single second of my little girl running out there on the field for me." He let out a choking laugh. "When his boy disappeared, he spent more time making sure Macey made it home safe than he did himself."

She didn't know what to say, but he walked away before she had a chance to figure it out. Abbie let him go.

These murders were starting to hit closer and closer to home. She couldn't help but think about Macey and her captain's worry for his daughter. She met every criterion for the children who went missing. Young, intelligent, sports-minded with a future in professional soccer already planned out for her. Shit, if Macey vanished, she didn't even know what Irving would do. What kind of damage that would wrack through him if he lost his daughter to the cold numbers and insufferable statics.

The second body was even more mangled than the one she found in the woods. Not a single ligament remained attached. Bits and pieces were scattered all over the cobblestone as if whatever did this played tug-of-war with limbs. Just the same as the other two, there was slobber. That repulsive, sop glinted back at her, reflecting the police lights almost menacingly.

She needed to know what the hell it was, because it was driving her fucking insane.

When she felt a hand on her shoulder, she almost punched whoever touched her. Although, she caught herself a split second before doing so, glaring wildly at Luke. He threw his hands up in defense.

"I'm sorry; didn't know you were in a daze."

She shoved her hands in her pockets. What she would do for that bottle of bourbon right now…

"We need you to ask the yardmen some questions, they're still pretty fucked up after finding the bodies." He pointed his thumb in the direction of the crew of yard workers. "Captain was gonna' do it first, but that's probably not a good idea." He eyed her rigid posture and sucked in air through his mouth. "If you're still out of it, I could do it instead."

She waved him off, shaking her head. She came here to do a job.

"I've got it."

Not only that, but Luke was absolute _shit_ at interrogating people; he just didn't know when to stop asking questions. Last time he probed a recently widowed wife and got smacked. He deserved it that time, but still—she didn't know how he'd fare against men twice his size and armed with garden tools.

She strode around the police tape—poorly—ignoring the bloodstained stones she stepped over. The group sat around by their work truck, chatting solemnly. Upon her arrival, the boss stood, his men following moments behind him. She stuck her hand out in greeting and the man took it wearily between his meaty hands.

"I'm Lieutenant Abigail Mills from Westchester County Police Department, and you are?"

"Joseph Sulley, owner of this lawn management service."

"I need to know exactly what happened. I want to know all the details about what occurred prior to you arriving at the property and before you found the bodies." She forced a smile despite feeling sick to her stomach. Sulley nodded dumbly.

"I got a call yesterday 'round three or four from some guy named _Barney Aylmer_." he pronounced the name as if it left a bad taste in his mouth. "It sounded like a pretty bullshit and fake name to me, but he was offering up five grand to mow his lawn. I wasn't gonna' look a gift horse in the mouth, so I took up the offer in a second." His eyes skimmed the large field surrounding the manor. "Had no fuckin' idea this is what he meant by lawn. Coulda' told me that before he hung up, but of course not."

She licked her lips, intrigued. "Anything weird about him that you noticed?"

Sulley let out an obnoxious bark. "Anything weird? This whole guy was fuckin' basket case! First he's got this funky ass British accent, then he sounded like he was out of breath the entire time. Thought he was dying or something; scared the shit outta' me! He called me from a public phone from a different county and the asshole acted like he didn't even know how to set up an appointment. Told us to come around whenever, so we got here as soon as possible. I mean, it's five grand—most we've been paid to manage somebody's shit.

"So we get in the car and start drivin' down this piece of shit road at like three-thirty. A huge ass fog rolled around and it felt like a page straight outta' _Goosebumps_! We pull up to the house, and the gate's just wide open. We thought he was waiting for us so we drove right in." he shudders, his face pale.

"What happened then?" she pressed on. He threw his hands up in the air.

"What I'mma about to tell you sounds like some _Grimm Brothers_ bull, but I shit you not, officer. I'm bein' completely honest wit'cha." He swallows audibly. A drop of sweat rolls down his neck. "So we get there, and the _whole place _is crawlin' with beady red eyes starin' at us. First I thought it was bats, but weren't no bat with eyes like them. I tried to put the truck in reverse and get the fuck outta' there when we slam into some _creature_. The thing bust our window open and tried to grab one of us—but Mark over here wasn't having any of that! Stabs the thing right in the arm with a pair of shears, and it goes off running. Must've been like two of them, 'cause I heard both of them sons of bitches screamin' and howlin' into the night!"

When her expression was incredulous, Sulley turned around, telling Mark to go grab the pair of shears. Sulley shook his head.

"It sounds crazy, officer, but I'm tellin' the truth! Wouldn't have believed it myself if it didn't try to kill me."

Mark whistled and she turned her attention his way. There, in his arm raised above his head for all to see, was the pair of shears covered in the most nauseatingly dark blood she's ever seen. The entire thing was coated in it.

Sulley smacked his knee, pointing at Mark. "See, I _told _you so! I go huntin' all the time and ain't never seen no land animal with blood like that!"

Abbie felt nauseous. Not even because of the disgusting blood oozing down the side of the shears, but because she couldn't find an explanation for _any _of this. Not the disappearances, not the wolf in the woods, not the slobber and _definitely _not the story Sulley told her. The sheer perplexity of this case was going to bury her under each new layer that kept piling up.

One of the forensics detectives took the shears from Mark, putting it in a plastic bag. Half of the team then went about scouring for more DNA samples inside of their truck.

Three hours later, and the scene was cleaned up. Just as if nothing ever happened; like a man wasn't beheaded and spiked, and the other one wasn't torn to shreds. This little fact upset her as she waited for the rest of the crew members to leave the property.

_**iii.**_

For the entire next week, she found a new obsession. Jenny used to tell her that one day she'd get hooked on something fierce and wouldn't be able to return from it—but then she was talking about drugs.

Now? It was Barney Aylmer.

Abbie spent an unhealthy amount of time—more time than she'd ever willing admit—trying to figure out who the fuck he was using the little bits of information Sulley provided her. She made some accomplishments, such as getting a hold of the street camera footage where the mystery man called, but some ill-placed foliage had gotten in the way of anything useful.

Then there was the list of past companies that was hired to manage the house. While it seemed insignificant at first, upon further inspection she realized it could shed light on the dilemma.

Apparently the house was made all the way back in the early 1870's. And ever since it was made, the house was manicured four times a month, every month for every year. The owner of the house used the same company for years until they went out of business, and by next week, they'd have another company cleaning and upholding its opulence. However, the last time they had their house upheld was in 1984, when the last business went bankrupt. From then on, the house was basically abandoned, until recently when Sulley's men were called.

Barney Aylmer—she checked that name in the system a ridiculous amount of times and came up mostly dry. The only thing she could find relating to that man was the deed to the house dated to when it was built.

Meaning that he'd been old enough to own a mini-mansion back in the 1870's and was still alive and kicking. That—she knew with solidity—was a load of steaming shit.

Adding yet another complexity to the list, all three bodies have been identified. Initially, it was an accomplishment for the police department, but once they found out it this was another hidden string in the cobweb, their delight was short-lived.

Martha Carroll, James Raymond, and Darla Baggins—all killed ruthlessly; all parents to missing people. The police department tried to withhold the information from the media so the citizens wouldn't indulge in another statewide hysteria, but their efforts were fruitless. 'Some crap about an officer in Putnam County sleeping with a reporter and slipping secrets, she couldn't remember the story anymore.

Forensics had yet to report what animal was responsible for the blood or the slobber. Seeing that this was taking longer than usual, nausea already settled in her chest.

It was just an hour after she arrived at the station when she got a call from Putnam County. Abbie rubbed her eyes, resisting the urge yawn as she answered the phone.

"Lieutenant Mills, Westchester County Police Department," she muttered, still wrapped up in information about the Aylmer house.

_"Lieutenant,_" he greeted tersely. _"I have an eye on somebody entering the Aylmer house."_

She sat up straighter, pushing the laptop away and pressing the phone closer to her ear. Ever since discovering the bodies, Putnam County police officers camped out at the house, waiting to see if anyone would return. They'd gone a couple of days without avail and were nearly ready to abandon the plan.

"Alright, I'll be over there in an hour. Don't confront him; wait till I get there." She moved to hang up the phone when she heard the officer's voice come again.

_"Lieutenant…he's uh..." _he scrambled for words. She felt her patience tick away.

"Yes, what is it?" she pressed, careful to keep her tone clipped and mild.

_"The man is bare…naked. Covered in dirt and leaves, too. I didn't see him come up from the road, so he must've gotten onto the property from the forest behind."_

She pursed her lips and held the bridge of her nose. The man who'd managed to duck completely out of police vision, drive her insane and expertly left little traces behind got caught _naked _in front of the manor.

_Naked_.

"Alright. Keep watching him until I show up, stay hidden and only stop him if she tries to leave."

_"Yes, ma'am_."

And with that, Abbie sped out of her office so fast she heard the pile of papers tip over and fall from her desk. She clenched and unclenched her keys tightly in her hands, weaving her way around people in the office. There was a confident spring in her step. Small bursts of adrenaline streamed through her veins. She pushed the doors open, exiting.

Outside felt like Hell, no surprise there. The sun beat down in hot waves. The wind scarcely blew and not a single cloud dared to float by. However, as she drove down the interstate to the next county, the scenery melded from stark blue skies into darker ones. Here, opaque clouds swirled in the ethers, thick with rain and omens for a _particularly_ shitty day.

Even the light fog that surrounded the house seemed to tenfold its density. She almost drove her car straight into the other officer's, hadn't it been for the fog lights barely penetrating her surroundings.

The Putnam County cop gave Abbie a stiff handshake, obviously crept by whatever environmental phenomena they were encased in. The man shook his head, peering at the scenery through squinted eyes.

"It doesn't make a lick of sense," he murmured skittishly. She scanned what she could see of the house, still unable to get over its ghastly beauty. The thick fog only seemed to add to the premodern allure.

Saying her farewells, she watched as the officer all but raced away from the property. Insects buzzed and the wind howled in her ears, but it all became white noise as she pushed the heavy gate open. It squealed loudly, causing a flock of ravens to scatter from their places on the spikes.

Everything about this place was surreal—incongruous with basically everything else. From the archaic atmosphere down to the abnormal weather, nothing about it seemed commonplace. Even the towering mahogany doors before her came equipped with daunting medieval knockers. For a moment, she questioned if the house was dated even further back than deed stated.

Abbie knocked a few times. She waited a minute. There was no response.

She knocked again, slamming the knockers harder. She waited another minute.

Fuck it, if the guy wanted to play hard, then she'd play right along. She cleared her throat, using the most authoritative, rash voice she could muster.

"This is Westchester County Police Depa—"

The doors swung open with such force Abbie's hair whipped and billowed around her shoulders.

"Bloody hell, _what do you want?_" was the pissy response she received.

If the man didn't already look beat, she would've considered punching him herself. Instead, she settled for crossing her arms, raising an eyebrow indignantly.

His acerbic, trifling attitude quickly dispersed. Scrambling for purchase, he worked his jaw a couple of times. His face glowed red. His posture went ramrod straight, fingers laced behind his back.

"My deepest apologies; I don't know what came over me…" he drawled, waiting for a name.

"Lieutenant Abigail Mills. You?" she asked deftly, sticking her hand out. There was a glint in his blue eyes as he glanced from her face to her hand, waiting. Hesitating. She met his guarded stare with a disarming smile, tilting her head expectantly for extra effect.

His cheeks turned a shade darker.

His larger hand engulfed hers with a firm shake.

"Ichabod Crane," he finally said.

_Bingo_.

He moved out of the doorway and invited her in. It was only when she heard the acoustic click did she remember to make sure that he was fully clothed. Although his attire was disheveled and thrown on haphazardly, he was clad.

She eyed him, intrigued. Crane was at least a foot and a head taller than her—much to her displeasure—with a lanky, sinewy build and impossibly long legs. He gave off an air of poise and importance. Even the graceful way he walked oozed finesse. His unshorn hair was tossed back in a half pony-tail, stray locks framing his prepossessing, angular face.

Howbeit, there was something deranged about him that she couldn't pinpoint. Something about the light rings underneath his eyes or his detached gaze that gave off a chilling sense of recognition.

Realizing she was staring, she glanced elsewhere. Crane didn't miss it.

"So what brings you here today, Leftenant?" he chirped while she swept over the grand ballroom. The entire room was classical with its cream white walls, gold lacing and engraving them in intricate, ornamental patterns. A large chandelier hung from the high ceiling, refracting beacons of light flittering through the dusty window. It seemed like she was the only modern touch inside of the house. Hell, even the clothes he wore looked as if it'd gone passé two centuries ago.

"Two bodies were found on your property a week ago. James Raymond and Darla Baggins if you're familiar with either of them. Both were completely brutalized in ways I'm not sick enough to tell you." She watched his face for a reaction, but his expression was schooled and unwavering. "Apparently someone named _Barney Aylmer _called a yard service to come and fix up the property when they found the bodies." _Amongst other wild things_, she added in her mind.

She pursed her lips together, posture feigning curiosity as she tapped her chin. "However, upon checking the system, the only Barney Aylmer that came up was the one that owned this house back in 1872. And while I'm no biologist, I'm pretty sure there're not many one-hundred-forty-two-year-olds in human existence. Seeing that you're the only one who we've seen ever come here, I was hoping you'd be able to shed some light?"

At that point, Abbie's voice was saccharine and laced with unbidden cynicism, but her sense of professionalism vanished several minutes ago. She spent copious hours obsessing over a lie; a man who was dead or possibly never even existed; she wanted to see him squirm.

Instead of being distressed like she anticipated, he remained aplomb. Hell, maybe even more so than before if the feral glimmer in his eyes was an indicator. She suddenly became antsy underneath his gaze, ultra-aware of everything. The air felt too stuffy, collar too tight. She licked her lips.

"Have you ever heard of Lycanthropy?"

Her head snapped up, dark eyes wide in astonishment.

"_Lycanthropy_?" she repeated dumbly. Crane nodded, walking in a languid circle around her. She shifted her hand closer to the holster. With each step he took, an invisible line seemed to follow, enclosing her in a tiny space that only seemed to get smaller and _smaller_.

"Yes, Leftenant. As in lycans, shifters, werewolves, skin walkers, etcetera," he tilted his head at her. "Surely you've heard of those."

Abbie bit her lip hard. "Of course I have, but what does _Lycanthropy _have to do with anything?"

He stopped and stood in front of her; far too close. If she wanted, she could count each lash fanning his eyes.

"The best advice I can lend you today is to go back." The glint was back again. Feral. Dangerous, though not inherently malicious. Her trigger finger itched. "You're walking into matters you may not be able to step away from."

She blinked slowly, leaning onto one foot. He sounded like a complete lunatic, spouting flowery drivel about naught and all. She didn't need him going around running his trap to those willing to listen. With the entire state at a standby, there were many patrons to his folly.

Even so—despite the grating ambiguity—there was certitude in his words. Certitude that made the muscles in her jaw and chest coil, although she knew bullshit like skinwalkers and shifters didn't exist outside the YA section of a library.

"And what may that be?" she questioned. He was fucking with her—she could feel it. "The Great Pumpkin King's gonna' pop out of nowhere? Dracula's gonna' hunt me down and drain me in my sleep?"

Crane's lips tugged down.

"You do not heed my cautions."

"Really?" she bit back sarcastically. "You arrive completely naked to an abandoned house, evaded my questions, and now you want me to believe your shit about _werewolves_?" She opened her mouth, but snapped it shut in resignation. She threw up both hands. "I'm obviously wasting my time here; I need to go."

"Wait," he trailed after her. "_Wait_."

She stopped a few feet short of the door. Made the honest mistake of turning around to get the last word.

"Lycans do not exist," she said, voice even and slow as if she spoke to a child. "Neither do werewolves and skinwalkers and shifters—they're all fake. They're made up. The world is a fucked up place filled with fucked up people; we don't need some supernatural _nonsense _to explain things that were caused by people. Humans, like you and me."

He must've been diagnosed with a mental illness. Something like schizophrenia or delirium where his perception of reality was confabulated—just like her mother's. It wasn't the first time she's dealt with something like this; traumatized victims and witnesses who all saw the same event but told a wild array of different stories.

Maybe she could get him checked into a hospital. Get him the help he obviously needed.

His composure was cracking. She could see it in the way he clenched and unclenched his fists. The way his jaw ticked and ground tightly. The way she could almost _hear_ his silent plea in his depths.

"The police will never be able to find these children," his voice was unfittingly icy. So chilled that she felt a tingle run up her spine like a cold finger. "You won't, the detectives won't—literally _no one _will be able to find these people as long as you all keep thinking they're _bloody damn **human**_!"

His voice was a roar. Thunderous. Exasperated. Wild, but so distraught she felt sadness rip through her chest like a knife.

The fraught silence afterward was obnoxious enough to be loud. The rain pattered raucously outside. She could hear his labored breaths. She could taste the blood from her lip on her tongue.

"You're insane." She forced herself to move. It felt like her body was composed of rusty metal. She wasn't going to end up like her mom damn it, and definitely not from listening to some deceitful stranger she just met. "You're _insane_." She repeated with finality.

She needed to leave. She needed air.

Crane sighed despairingly.

"Miss Mills," she heard him start behind her. Abbie grabbed the knob and pulled the door open. "_Miss Mills_—"

She didn't even get a chance to stick her foot out the door before it slammed close. She let out a small gasp, the ground seemingly moving away from her she as was pinned up against the door. Her thighs hugged his hips for support. She could feel his chest heaving against hers. Abbie didn't even know when he _moved_.

"Miss Mills," Crane tried again. His voice was and low restored with patience. She glanced anywhere but his face—the chandelier that shimmered high above, the steady leak in the corner of the ballroom. Having none of that, he lifted her chin with his thumb, willing her to look him in the eyes. And when she did, she decided it was less intense staring into the sun.

Lightning floodlit the room in a pale luminescence, the light surrounding him like a nimbus for a split-second. It went back to the gloom. The thunder rattled the house.

"I'm not insane—" she could still argue against that. "—and I'm going to prove to you that Lycanthropy is not just a bedtime fable."

Crane let her go, and she slid numbly to her feet. She had every reason to shoot him, every reason to get the hell out of there, but—for some inexplicable, _goddamn _reason—she stayed. Whether or not that decision was a mistake, she didn't know yet. But she didn't run.

Lightning illuminated the room again. This one brighter than the last. Darkness fell.

Crane pulled back the sleeve on his arm, stretching his long fingers. He closed his eyes in concentration. There was a pregnant stretch of silence before anything happened.

Through the gloom, she could see the skin of his fingertips reddening. Soon _bulging _and _splitting _as if a knife tore its way from the inside of his body. Black talons replaced nails. The flesh around his hand parted. Blood splattered to the floor.

The lightning's so bright this time it stayed there for a second. It went dark again, but this time, it was her vision instead.


	2. Maelstrom

**_i._**

_For once in his life, Crane found it hard to fall asleep. _Unconsciousness didn't wash over and pull him into a dreamless slumber like it used to. Instead, he laid awake in the shadowy room, staring blankly at the high ceiling in hopes of becoming bored enough to doze off. However—whether it be from the waxing gibbous moon or the tiny vixen that once graced his presence hours ago—his mind had other plans for him that evening.

Thoughts swirled riotously in his head like a violent eddy. Images, sensations, sounds—mostly, if not completely—revolving around _her_. He forced the palms of his hands over his eyes. God knew Ichabod was far from a sex-depraved degenerate, yet his mind kept finding its way back to the events that transpired earlier. Like the way her supple thighs wrapped perfectly around his hips. How she'd unknowingly taken her bottom lip between her teeth when she was nervous. The endearing way she scrunched her nose when she'd caught him in his Barney Aylmer lie.

The woman was pure sin.

_Abigail_, he reminded himself. Not "the woman". She had a name; one he'd forget upon a cold day in hell.

Ichabod took in a deep breath of air, hoping to chill his searing skin. His heart palpitated in his chest. His sense of touch heightened. His lengthy canines protruded into his tongue and if his trousers got any tighter he swore he was going to tear them off.

But Crane was a man—a wolf man, but a man nonetheless—and his subconscious did at it pleased. Heavens, that _seraphic _expanse of smooth skin on her neck was his undoing...

_To hell with this! _He thought, throwing the thick sheets off of his oversensitive body. Sleep was too far from him to pretend it was coming soon. He stretched his limbs; the burn and pull in his taut muscles was momentary bliss.

He took his signature coat, wrapped it around his shoulders and exited his room. If his thoughts wanted to run amok, they were going to be about the earth-shattering damage he'd left in his quake. Much less pleasant than the ones about the lieutenant, but he digressed.

The empty, barren hallways echoed with each step he took. Cobwebs and dust coated the ground in white, leaving large footprints behind him. It was quiet enough for him to hear the cattle mooing and huffing in the fields outside of the manor.

And that—incredibly so—perturbed him.

This house never used to be quiet. In its long two centuries since being built, Crane couldn't remember a _single day _where it'd been noiseless. If it wasn't clatter from his large pack the manor housed, then it was from the constant barrage of ambassadors, nobles and royalty flooding the hallways every week. Divine melodies used to dance along each corridor. Delicacies from all over Lycanthrope territories once filled the air with a mouthwatering aroma. Elan and exuberance used to draw in nobles like a moth to a flame.

But now?

Crane kicked away a large shard of broken glass on the floor.

This house was _nothing_. Nothing but dust and shadows. Ghosts. Phantoms.

He felt his claws itching to be stretched, his primal counterpart obviously less than pleased at the turn of events. He pressed his fingertips into his palms.

His legs had a mind of their own as they led him across the tiled floors, exploring the house as if it was his first time again. As if he hadn't memorized every room, trapdoor and hallway like a mantra. But seeing the stark contrast in ambiance from now and then, it might've well been an entirely new building.

He skirted past the enormous kitchen—which at one point held every spice known to man—and the desolate longue room. Past the innumerable doors that led to rooms and closets, others into hidden passageways. Many doors were left wide open—some disturbingly snatched right off the hinges—and let him peer into the deserted living quarters. Books, scrolls and sheets were strewn everywhere in most of them. A few walls were speckled and marred with mold, and for others, blood.

Crane stopped at the splintered doorway to his sigma's room, his fingers curling around the brass doorknob as if it was the offender. This room—like the others—was in complete disarray. That was out of character for his sigma. The man was almost as compulsively neat as Ichabod. Clothes were scattered and piled up on practically every surface. Ink-stained parchment covered his desk and the plush chair beside it, too.

He spotted the younger man's half-packed suitcase on its side. Crane rolled it over, rifling through the dusty garments. Toothbrushes, knives, an empty bottle of lunar essence—the bare essentials. His sigma tried to leave. The red blotches on his sheets told Ichabod he didn't get far.

Crane moved onto the next object of interest; the ink-stained parchments. Although most of it was tarnished and illegible, he could make out a couple of sentences.

_—an't watch this madness unfurl before me any longer. The Almighty knows it; He knows I am weak. He knows that whatever will I had left sapped away with my last vial of lunar essence. I—_

_—ham wants to continue protecting what little there is left to protect. I do not have the heart to tell him that I wasn't born to take up a position as a bet—_

_—this now, as I stare into the abyss and it stares back, my thoughts continue to reel about the man I assumed I knew like kin. The man who said he would take up after the fallen Parliament and raise us back from the ashes. Our leader! Our Alpha! Yet he, even more so than omegas, showed pusillanimity at the omen of peril. When Bethany told me he fled into the night, I'd sooner thought he was slain than—_

The writing ceased. His hands quivered as he set the paper on the desk. Crane swallowed thickly, his face flush and clammy.

God, he did this.

He needed to leave the room.

His thoughts were even more befuddled than before, trying to fill in the missing blanks by sorting through his memories. He knew about Parliament falling—he recalled the entire day in explicit detail. From the flakey, hot scones he had at sunrise to the arduous night he spent planning with his pack to restore order and build a new government.

Hell, he and the entire Lycanthrope people knew that day was coming long before it came. Parliament was corrupted; the council was power hungry. They were less concerned with keeping the supernatural at bay than they were with seizing land and getting rid of nuisances that threatened their positions as supreme. However, their greed came bounding at their heels like a hellhound. Centuries of inflicting injustice under the guise of "the greater good"—an act he unwittingly enforced and believed in once afore—kindled a spark that quickly transformed into a wildfire. People rioted, they revolted.

It was a countdown for all—not just the Lycanthropes. Faes, demons, witches and lesser entities—most of which are undoubtedly extinct now—were at a standby for the day it would all plunge through. Waiting 'til the last councilman was either killed or resigned under pressure.

Because right after that, it would be unadulterated anarchy. Open season for humans.

The familiar, stale scent of his old friend jolted him out of his thoughts. Crane didn't even realize he walked all the way to the war chamber on the highest floor. He ran his fingertips along the icy steel doors, sliding his calloused thumbs over the bolts, nuts and switches. This room was undisputedly the most guarded one in the entire manor—more hexes fortifying these doors than surrounding the house.

Crane made quick work of the locks before pulling them open. They whined and creaked from disuse and rust, sending a shrill noise barreling down the halls. Immediately upon entering, the lights flickered to life. An irritating buzz from one bulb made his skin crawl.

This room, naturally, was less ornate than the others in the house. There weren't any extravagant, golden embellishments on the bare metal walls, no crocheted doilies on each table. Everything in the room was strictly military.

Crane swept the thick layer of dust off the table map, giving the complicated boundaries of the supernatural world a quick once over. God, he remembered the amount of hours he and Abraham spent mulling over this damned table. How many sleepless nights they wasted strategizing, preparing for the collapse of Parliament for the entire plan to fall flat on its _ass_.

He made it over to the weapon racks on the right wall, eyeing the impressive collection he and his pack gathered. Despite the hollow gape in the pit of his stomach, he felt pride warm his chest. Ancient artifacts, cursed objects, grimoires, poison vials, swords, battleaxes—they spent years scouring the earth for them. So much blood was shed to make sure that these numinous armaments were kept far away from malicious hands.

The few belonging to specific pack members were absent. The wide space where Abraham's battle-axe used to be was covered in grime. He scoured the rest of the extensive assortment for his, coming up dry minutes later. He flexed his fingers, tension building in his body. If anybody got a hold of the Methuselah, they were in for one hell of a surprise when they used it.

Crane was on the brink of turning the entire war room upside down when he found the broadsword on his seat at the table. He picked up the long weapon, unsheathing it to its full length. The thick blade gleamed glossily in the dim light, almost as if it was sentient and welcoming his long-awaited presence. As his eyes traveled down the weapon's form, he spotted a piece of curled paper at its hilt.

He unraveled it, reading over the contents with a heavy heart.

_December 13th, 1984_

_Whenever you decide to stop being a bloody fucking asswipe, you can find me in Purgatory. I'll be there every single day until you arrive._

_-A. V. B._

Crane gripped the yellowed paper. His vision swirled. His stomach lurched.

Abraham wrote this thirty years ago. _Thirty years_. Three-hundred-sixty months. One-thousand-four-hundred-forty weeks. Ten-thousand—

_Stop! _His inner wolf roared before he could get lost in a plethora of numbers. In the sheer amount of_ time _he spent ambling around in the woods until Abigail somehow knocked him out of his hoodoo-induced slumber.

God, was Abraham even alive anymore? Was _any _of his pack still breathing today?

Crane stared down at the paper in his hand, his vision blurry. He didn't know where they were now, but he knew where to start.

**_ii._**

The next couple of days for the former alpha was a blur. A whirlpool of emotions and flittering images and sounds he's since stopped trying to make out. And today—this supernaturally-caused cloudy afternoon—was no different.

He spent most of his time outside of his manor, looking further into the abductions, watching the number of missing people climb mercilessly. Even _he_—the esteemed Lycanthrope philosopher and ex-General—was baffled how the lycans managed to capture an appalling amount of children without leaving a trace behind for him to follow—it was more than infuriating. This only strengthened Crane's need to reach his old friend.

Crane knew where Abraham was the moment he read _Purgatory_. His beta wasn't residing in the inescapable limbo between worlds, but rather the shabby bar and brothel in Maine he frequented before the war. Ichabod remembered how much he _loathed _that godforsaken, filthy place. It was a den of iniquity—so vile he was sure the seventh chamber in Hell was their chief inspiration. He couldn't—to save his life—figure out why his comrade treasured that place so much.

Nonetheless, if Abraham held true to his note, he would be there. Ichabod's stalling to pay his old friend a visit wasn't a matter doubt. Before Crane had taken over the pack due to complications with Parliament, Abraham was the alpha. He had faith in his comrade's strength—he was completely sure the man was a survivor.

_However_, if he were to come face-to-face with his beta again, he doubted he'd be one.

"Mr. Crane!"

He glanced at one of the many people on the property before he found the plump, elderly lady waving him over. He set his wine down a table outside and strode over to the florist. The woman, Amelia Thorne, was the best money could buy in all of New York. Her handiwork and simple—yet brilliant—flower garden designs rivaled those of the nymphs.

Mrs. Thorne stood up from her chair, wiping gray hair away from her round face. Even standing up, the astute lady barely reached his chest. She frowned, scanning the vast expanse of soil being treated to nurture delicate flora.

"You never did tell me what kind of flowers you wanted out here," she started, a musing expression on her face. "But you know what—doesn't really matter. Red brick houses look _phenomenal _with some achillieas! Oh, butterfly weeds and rudbeckias, too. We could even put some sunflowers in the mix, if you're willing—"

"Anything you choose is fine." Crane interrupted, seeing that the chatty, graying woman didn't plan on stopping anytime soon. It was times like this when he recalled how much older he was than humans. Mrs. Thorne made an "o" with her mouth, elation from having an entire field to design visible.

Crane raised an eyebrow.

Crane pulled his coat closer to his body as a cool wind blew by. While the past few days were mostly filled with empty humdrum, he's made it his mission to restore the splendor of the manor. He's gotten the moldy walls replaced, the technology updated, the busted glasses fixed. Maids and cleaning crews have been zipping in and out of his house all week, getting rid of the musty smell, rodents, and dust. The creamy, marble floors have been polished to the point he could see his reflection anywhere he walked.

And while most of the renovations were done out of guilt for abandoning the house and his pack, he'd be lying if he said wasn't thinking of Abigail the entire time.

Just reminiscing about her made his heart pound and his face heat—this time around he couldn't even blame it on the moon. He had an attraction towards the lieutenant that was beyond the human, secular ideas of romance and desire. It was primal. It was pure.

Like hell did he want to see her again, but their "official" meeting was unpleasant, to say the least.

A few hours later, after Mrs. Thorne and her men left, he headed to the center of Phillipstown. Crane crossed the empty highways. The sun was just beginning to lower behind the tree line, the heavens washed in radiant hues of cream, orange and pink. Thin, stratus clouds surrounded the bright sphere like a halo. Warm air tossed his hair every which way, but he didn't mind.

Phillipstown was a small city with a population barely reaching over ten-thousand; the place was ideal for woodland supernatural life. There were dense forests all throughout the area, prey was abundant, and there weren't many visitors. The nightlife here was a pub short of nonexistent, but yet he still found himself looking for somewhere to get a drink. Ever since waking up, every day has been grueling and unpleasant. Responsibilities he'd fled from in the first place were catching up, hounding him with each passing day. He only had so long before he had to get back to business—he was going to relish the time he had before it.

Crane pulled up to bar's parking lot, hopping out the car seconds later. He wasn't too familiar with the establishment _Jimmy's Bar and Steakhouse_—seeing that it was built during his absence—but from the smoky scent of beef wafting through the air, it couldn't possibly haven been unsavory.

It smelled delectable, even though animal meat wasn't the kind he preferred.

The building was modest with a cozy aura. The walls and floors were made out of wood, the tables decorated with plaid sheets and a single, low-burning candle in the center. Acoustic folk music resonated throughout the bar. The tavern appealed to an older crowd, he assumed, looking at the men—all who must've been at least forty and older.

Crane sat down on a worn stool, ordering malt whiskey from the top shelf. A woman behind the counter poured his cup, giving a flirty grin as he sipped it. It was a minute later when he finished, already asking for a refill. Not only could he handle his liquor, but human whiskey did bugger all for werewolves. He could down an entire bottle of their strongest drink and feel only somewhat tipsy at the end. Sometimes—such as now—it was maddening.

He didn't want to get tipsy; he wanted to get so inebriated that he couldn't tell up from down or left from right.

The small TV droned on about the news, highlighting a few insignificant stories. He tapped the corner of his glass, listening to mind-numbing reports rather than the gentleman next to his raunchy, obviously fabricated tales.

_"—another _forty-six_ people went missing this past week all over New York, making this a record high in the case."_

Ichabod sucked in air through his mouth, closing his eyes No matter where he went—or how much he hid—it was evident his omissions were going to keep haunting him like a wraith. He couldn't keep running away anymore, deferring his burdens as if he had the leisure to. As if his negligence wasn't the reason why hundreds have been abducted by lycans.

The woman continued to report about the morbidity of the case. How investigators were left baffled; how the government organizations were grasping at straws for an answer. Terrorists? Mobs? Smugglers? By the time the story passed, there was a crack in his glass for grasping it too tight.

Crane withdrew his hand, sheathing his claws in hopes that no one caught his err. He was getting careless about controlling his body. Mood completely soured, he glared down at his drink. It was a mistake coming out tonight.

"Having a bad day?"

He glanced up, catching eyes with the woman—Shelly? Stella?—who poured his drink earlier. Now, she sat close to him, her blouse unbuttoned daringly low and her blonde hair falling around her shoulders. It didn't take a scholar to know she was interested.

"You could say," he muttered curtly, choosing to stare at the clock instead of her eyes. Crane wasn't a standoffish person—quite the contrary, seeing that living in the bustling manor forced him to be sociable—but he could literally feel heat rolling off of her in waves. She was eyeing him down like a piece of fresh meat and he never needed to leave a situation as hastily as he did now.

She curled a strand of hair around her finger. "You don't talk much, do you?" she smirked. "It's always the quiet ones."

He cleared his throat, his face heating up. "Well, it's getting late; I should—"

"It's only nine o'clock."

"I have business to attend back at home—"

"So do I, but we can make amends."

The lady grabbed the rest of his drink and knocked it back, eyes wild and shameless.

He held back a frustrated sigh. Being an alpha came with its perks and cons. Perks being that people were more inclined to submit to him, to follow his rules committedly without needing to reinforce it. On the other hand, his natural prowess led to situations such as _this_, where humans and lesser entities were oblivious of their beguilement and acted on a whim. Most times the result wasn't this wanton response, but unfortunately, today was the outlier.

It was when she placed her hand on his inner thigh did he slide out of his chair, tossing a bill on the counter, and marched right out the doors. He was a grown man; he'll be damned before he let a tiny, human woman fondle and feel him up without his consent.

But the waitress was persistent. Her shoes clacked behind him until she grabbed his elbow and spun him around.

"Hey, _hey_!" she tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear. "Look, I'm sorry if I'm coming on strong, but there's just _something _about you that I can't—"

Crane, out of many options, grabbed her shoulders. She hushed immediately, staring down at her feet and twiddling her thumbs. She was anxious. Nervous. He lifted her head, forcing her to look into his eyes.

"You will go home and forget this ever happened," He instructed, his voice already straining. The flustered woman was now torpid. Not nonplussed, but void of any sentiments or thoughts. She nodded mechanically, body rigid, and walked away. She stepped into her car and peeled out of the parking lot.

The instant she left, blood gushed out of his nose in a steady stream.

He let out a silent cry, clutching his head. Everything was white. Everything burned. Each breath he took felt like task and—God help him—it felt like the ground was consuming him whole. He pressed his back against the wall, staring skyward until his vision cleared and the pain dulled into an erratic throb.

**iii.**

Eastport, Maine, Crane decided, was one of more repugnant sights in North America. The entire town was timeworn, but not in the classical sense that his manor was. The buildings were decaying, most—if not all—were in despairing need for repair. The deserted roads were poorly constructed with street lights that seldom worked. Not that they needed it, anyway. A couple hundred—one-thousand at best—people lived here. Most of which were lesser entities like sirens and selkies since the town was surrounded by water.

The sky was somber and leaden with portents for a heavy shower. The air was arctic, the streets were slick with frost—without doubt the environmental phenomena of a powerful hex from an adept warlock. He took in a deep breath, inhaling the crisp, salty scent in the air. Fish and seaweed were the most dominant odors, but after another whiff, he could detect the dank rot of witches and succubus. _Purgatory _was near.

The Methuselah was strapped against his back, each burdened step he took made the weapon rattle. He didn't want to bring his sword along, but Crane knew Abraham better than anyone else. If he expected to come before his old friend again, it was best to be prepared for the fight he feared would happen.

Another howling gust tousled his hair, whistling through the empty buildings and streets. He could hear the slow, sultry music from the brothel a block away. He clenched his jaw, driving himself to calm down.

When he finally pushed the dense doors open, heat enveloped him like a thick, sweltering blanket of fire. He almost laughed at the familiarity of it all. Seemingly nothing about the hellish pit has changed since the last time he unwilling stepped inside. Down to the objectionable décor and scantily dressed women; it was as if the entire brothel—hell, _town_—was trapped in a time paradox.

Crane, however, did spot one difference. It came in the form of several people staring at him as if he'd risen right through the crust of Hell before them. To say they were unpleasantly surprised was too far of an understatement. He didn't have to be empathic to know everyone there was brimming with well-placed odium. Their slit, sable eyes, tightened fists and jittery movements were telltale.

Instinctively, he pulled the lapels of his coat tighter around himself, eyes downcast to avoid confrontation.

_Pay them no mind, _he told himself. More accurately, his inner wolf. The fiend was roaring inside of him, adding fuel to a fire that scorched his throat and chest. Crane could feel every single pair of eyes on him, turning heads as he ambled to the shrouded booth Abraham dubbed his years afore.

Even with the music drowning every other recognizable sound, he could acutely _hear _them. The blood coursing through their veins. The mutters. The lies.

It didn't take more than ten minutes to find his destination. But as long as he spent staring at the soiled, red veil from afar, it could've been another thirty years.

_It's now or never._

He threw back the curtain. Crane's breath hitched.

Through the nearly impenetrable gloom shrouding every inch of the brothel, he could see the woebegone, chaotic state Abraham was in. Sickly alabaster skin, a light sheen of sweat coating his forehead, lackluster ash-blond hair tucked into a half-assed ponytail—he looked ghoulish. His back was hunched over the side of the settee, his prized overcoat in a crumpled heap next to his foot. Abraham pinched his nose, letting out a brusque huff.

"Anabelle, I told you to leave me—"

His head snapped in Crane's direction. For the first time in three decades, their eyes locked.

Abraham blinked—once, twice—his body stiff. His index finger twitched, his Adam's apple bobbed. Those were the only signs given that he registered Crane's presence.

It was mere seconds later did Crane regret coming to the bordello that lived up to its name. This—like many of the choices he's made—was a mistake. The pressing crisis of the lycans apparently was just scratching the surface of the havoc he left behind.

Abraham continued to stare, eyes guarded and face set with unreadable emotion. His jaw was tight and the betraying vein at his neck bulged. He was a ticking time bomb.

Ichabod was the first to speak.

"Abraham—"

"What the hell do you want?" he cut in, gathering his coat and shrugging it on. Crane ran his hands through fallow locks, scrambling for effective words. But what could be said?

"I need your help." He began slowly, as if testing out foreign syllables on his tongue.

There was a beat of silence.

Abraham let out an obnoxious bark. So loud that the room reverberated with his deep, mirthless laughter. So loud he was sure people stopped their profane rutting to pay attention.

"You need _my _help?" he snarled, wiping an unshed tear from unsympathetic eyes. "The same way we all needed your help after Parliament fell?" he pulled up his silver-lined collar around his neck. Dread and regret pooled in Crane's stomach until he felt nauseous.

"Nothing I can say now or ever will make up for what I did, but I need your help. I _need _to fix this disorder that I caused, and I cannot do it alone."

"It's far too late for an apology, Ichabod!" his faux level-headedness was gone. He stepped into his alpha's space, chest heaving with anger. "_You _destroyed us! _You _left us _all _to die while you ran away with you your tail-tucked between your legs!" Abraham stepped back, gripping his platinum strands between his fingers. He rubbed his hands over his bruised lids.

This was a hollow shell of the man Crane used to know.

"While we spent countless nights trying to stop the anarchy and bloodshed, _you _ran to a bloody fucking _witch doctor _and put yourself into a slumber! I went out _every day _for months—_months_, Ichabod!—hoping that the rumors were lies!" he swung back around, pointing his unsheathed claw at Crane. His eyes were slanted in malice, venom on his tongue.

"How much did it cost you, Crane?" his voice took over an icy chill. "How much did you give the witch doctor so that she could put you to sleep for _thirty years_?" when the alpha didn't respond, he slammed his fist into the wall. The entire building trembled. "_How much?!_"

"_Everything_!" Crane finally roared, his emotions unstable. He never felt so vulnerable—_exposed and raw and open_—as he did now. He wore his sins on his sleeve and Abraham was condemning him to damnation. "I gave her _everything_! I gave up, Abraham—there was nothing to left to save! They killed my _father _and left whatever bits they could salvage at our door. Lycanthrope _empires _came tumbling down one after the other. What was I to do?!"

"_Fight_, _goddamn it_!"

The music had since stopped playing. The people were long ago silenced by the influence the emitting off of both of them.

Metal sliding off of each other became the only sound.

The Methuselah clashed against the Axe of Enoch, both weapons burning with divine influence. They struggled for the stronger hold before coming again and again in the symphony of battle. Both were matched—they knew each other far too well in combat for either to make it out winning or alive.

Like how Crane knew Abraham became a brute when he was livid, that all his attacks were wild and predictably unpredictable. He'd swing his axe to and fro, seeking fatality with each thrust. Crane knew where to block each time he advanced. Same as Abraham knew his alpha hesitated whenever he used the Methuselah against kin, giving him that _precious _moment right before impact to knock his sword back with vehemence.

Crane ducked, narrowly missing the blazing poleax that flew above his head. He hissed, the hot pain singing his scalp. He leapt across the bar, popping his shoulder back in place while he was granted the time. He pressed his back against the rack as the axe came crashing down onto counter, splitting it in half.

Crane swore, meeting blades with Abraham again. Abraham was always more robust than he, and his unpractice was proving to be his downfall. He skittered to the side, wiping the blood pouring over his eye with the back of his hand. He moved to strike again, but Abraham was swift and charged like lightning.

He knocked the Methuselah out of Crane's grasp; he could only watch helplessly as it clattered to floor. Using the split second before his alpha regained his senses, he enclosed his hands around Crane's neck and slammed him onto the remaining surface of the bar.

Air rushed out of Crane's lungs, his vision burning white for a twinkling. Abraham held the Axe of Enoch so close to his neck he could sense his skin sizzling from the sheer proximity. He hissed, digging his claws into Abraham's skin, but the man was unyielding.

"I waited thirty years for you to come back, and now all I want is for you to be _gone_!" He appeared as disconsolate and cross as Crane was the day he came to in the woods. Crane took in a strangled, shuddering breath, adeptly blocking out the roots from onlookers who chanted for his demise.

"_Lycans_," he wheezed. His random response threw Abraham off, his eyebrows knitted together in confusion.

"What?"

"The _lycans_, Abraham!" Abraham's grip slackened a fraction. Crane gathered all of the strength he could muster, seizing the axe's hilt and kicking Abraham into the shelves. The wood let out a low whine before giving out under pressure. Bottles of fine wine and liquor came crashing down, glass and liquor spraying everywhere.

Without the power of its master, the poleax's red, pulsating fire dimmed into nothingness. Abraham glowered, soaked and struggling to get up. He held the slippery wall for support, but that showed futile.

"I did not come here to _fight you_!" he roared, blue eyes wide and glittering with frustration. He hurled the poleax into the furthest wall, the blade burying itself into the plaster. His arm convulsed in pain, but he ignored it. "I did not come here seek solace for my actions, nor to beg for your forgiveness!"

Abraham's fingers were curled into fists, his canines fully erect, but he didn't move.

"I'm here because lycans have been running rampant, rebuilding their military with _human children_!" He searched his old friend's face for something—anything—other than the shock that made his body rigid. Wrath welled up in Crane's chest, his skin prickling with heat that rivaled Axe of Enoch. "Nearly four-hundred people have vanished, three shredded bodies have been found. Hell, they apparently left _two _of them at the goddamn manor with their _filth _all over for everyone to see. They've declared war on us, Abraham, and they're using humans as fodder!"

When Abraham didn't show a flicker of recognition, Crane collectively lost his shit.

"_You didn't **know** this_?!" he grabbed Abraham by the coat and threw him up against the wall. His body ached and opposed, but the beast inside of him was eating it up. Savoring the burn like whiskey. "How could you _not know_ this?! The news is _everywhere_!" He punctuated his fury by throwing him over the smoldered counter and into the crowd of entities. The demons and succubus seized him before he could hit the floor. "It's in the newspaper, the media—spreading like wildfire all over the nation! The American government has gotten involved; it's only a matter of time before they figure us out unless something is _done_!"

And then it all made sense. Everything pieced together like a puzzle. The archaic place he resided in, the time-stand-still, the lack of easy-access information that should've long ago rang warning bells all over this town.

Abraham ran away too.

Crane swallowed thickly, snatching his sword from the floor. He cast one last glance at Abraham and left.


	3. Phantasmagorical

***Edited: 1/5/16**

* * *

_**solstice**_

_phantasmagorical_

* * *

_**i.**_

_There were three rules in Abbie's life._

One; survive.

Two; trust no one.

Three; stay _the fuck away _from _anything_ that dealt with the paranormal.

The last decree—as unorthodox as it was—happened to be the most prominent factor for her straight-laced personality, "_no bullshit_" values and patent skepticism about religion. The distance she went to avoid everything superstitious was admirable—or possibly unwholesome and compulsive.

She couldn't decide yet.

Abbie well-nigh excommunicated the members of her old, Catholic ministry the moment her mother was forced to stop making her go. Most—hell, if not _all_—of her heavily religious family members were debarred, the little words shared between them saved for rare reunions or funerals.

So with that being said, it was nothing short of laughable that the cynic stood before _Adaeze's Undead Emporium_; distraught and at loss for any other place to go.

She let out a beaten sigh, pushing the door open.

Aside from the light flittering in through thin curtains, the place was shrouded in an unsettling gloom. She shoved her hands into her jean's pockets, willing them to still along with the thrumming in her chest. The shoppe was overwrought with vibrant colors; each wall holding a different hue from the spectrum. An assortment of disturbing, dark masks and equally distressing artwork hung in clusters separated by culture. The deep, wooden shelves were stacked with hand-made ceramics, candles, and oils. Half of the other relics she couldn't even begin to name, though she had a grudging knowledge of many.

On the opposite side of the store, the entire wall was amassed with books, scrolls, and pamphlets from what looked like all sections of the timeline. The yellowed, moldy bindings and dank odor definitely couldn't have come from any modern day works.

Foreign music played a decibel above a whisper, but still managed to be the loudest sound in the confined space. It was obvious _Adaeze's _didn't get much business if it's vacancy during the afternoon rush was an indicator.

She peered around the shelves—attentive not to touch anything—searching for an employee or anybody willing to assist. However, as three minutes passed by without a goddamn living thing in sight, she was prepared to call it quits.

That and the shrunken head on display was starting to get to her.

The entrance door swung open, a flurry of wind sweeping through the establishment like a much-needed breath of fresh air. Abbie swung around, facing the newcomer with tense, wide eyes.

"Calm down, suga'. Ain't no need to be scared." The old woman crooned, shutting the door behind her. She flashed a hospitable, wrinkled smile, extending her hand. "I'm Adaeze."

Adaeze's laidback mannerisms put her at momentary ease. Abbie returned the beam, holding her warm, calloused fingers between her own.

The moment was short-lived.

Adaeze snatched her hand away, grasping her fingertips as if they were scalded. Abbie's arm fell limply to her side. The hairs at the nape of her neck stood straight. Her pulse quickened.

She studied Adaeze's wrinkled face. Bushy eyebrows stitched together. Overblown eyes flicked from her hand to Abbie. Lips pulled into a taut "o". She stared at her as if she was the devil himself.

"I need to—I've got to go." She fumbled, desperate for an excuse to get the hell out of there. She sidestepped the flummoxed owner, laying siege upon her bottom lip with her teeth.

Coming here was a mistake.

She couldn't even fathom why the hell she thought this was a bright idea in the first place. She didn't spend ten years of her life avoiding everything that reminded of her of her mother for no reason. She didn't stop talking to Aunt Mae, Uncle Phil, and _her own fucking sister _just so she could go running back to same bullshit that ruined her to begin with.

But what was she supposed to _do_? Where was she supposed to go since _science _and _logic _and _everything else _told her that what she saw two weeks ago didn't exist?

For fuck's sake, she spent every day—every hour, every minute, every _second_—second-guessing herself about what happened.

_"Have you ever heard of Lycanthropy?"_

There were nights where she stared at the ceiling for hours, wondering if she was going to go insane like her mother. Or suffer from chronic dementia and take her life like her father.

_ "I'm going to prove to you that Lycanthropy is not just a bedtime fable."_

She remembered everything in such vivid detail. Crane's rigid posture, the lightning, the _claws_. She remembered everything going black, and then waking up in her squad car with a throbbing, red bruise on her neck.

She couldn't take the lunacy anymore. She just, _she just_—

Adaeze's fingers on her shoulder jerked her out of her turmoil. She was still inside of the store, hand gripping the handle for dear life, but never left.

"C'mon, girl. You need to sit down."

Abbie swallowed the lump in her throat, moving away from the exit. She pulled out one of the chairs from a squat, round table. The elderly woman picked up a deck of cards—which Abbie soon recognized as tarot cards—from one of the shelves. She lumbered back to the table, sitting down with a long, haunted sigh. Adaeze spread them over the surface, picture-side down.

"You rollin' in evil, girl," she muttered, voice grave and face grim. The shop owner began to fix the cards in straight rows. "You got somethin' _nasty _out for ya. Somethin' vile out there try'na get a hold of that soul." Her all-knowing eyes flicked up to the bruise on her neck. Abbie subconsciously kneaded the tender spot.

"Pick three of the cards, hon'. I'll be able to see what wickedness lies ahead by your choices." Adaeze pulled back in the chair, arms folding over her midsection. Her gaze never left Abbie's throat.

She grazed her fingers along the overelaborate backs of the cards, eyeing each one she passed over. She knew tarot cards were spurious; that whichever ones you chose were because of statics rather than "fate" and "destiny", but that knowledge did fuck-all to stop her skin from becoming sticky and pricking with perspiration.

Abbie flipped over the first one. It read_ The Hanged Man_.

She flipped over the second one. It read _Death_.

And with the last bit of resolve she had left, she overturned the third one. It read _The Devil_.

Adaeze croaked. A nearby candle snuffed out.

She rubbed her palms over her eyes and mumbled something akin to a silent prayer.

"_The Hanged Man _means to be adaptin' to new circumstances. It means enlightenment, learnin'. Somethin' in your life is changin' and if you don't start movin' with it—" she ran her index across her neck. "—that's gonna' be the end of you."

"_Death_," she continued. "This one ain't as bad as it sounds—maybe even a hidden blessin' if you let it be. There's a transformation; a new cycle is waitin' for you."

Adaeze gripped the last card so tight it began to fold.

"_The Devil_," a doleful, shaken moan escaped her lips. "Bondage, slavery, vanity—nothin' good is comin' from this." She released the ill-omened card and took Abbie's hands between her own. Her hardened eyes returned to the discoloration on her skin. "There is someone chasin' after you like a bat outta' Hell. The moment they get a hold of you, ain't no _comin_' back. There ain't no runnin' away with whatever _fiend_ has eyes for you."

_The Devil_.

She could almost hear her mother cackling all the way from Terrytown Psych. That the one daughter who swore off everything pious found herself ensnared in a paradox. _Werewolves_, _Lycans_, _the Devil_—the list of abnormal anomalies was growing.

Abbie didn't know how long she could keep shimmying on the veil between believing and not—or rather in the limbo of unhinged and lucid.

**_ii._**

The rest of the day she spent in solitude. The windows were closed, the blinds were sealed shut. Her pistol was dutiful at her side as she lay motionless in her sheets, slender fingers wrapped in soft, dark tresses. The only sign she was alive was the gentle rise and fall of her chest. The occasional twitch of her toe when the roar in her mind became particularly vehement.

Once again—for the umpteenth time that week—she stared at the ceiling as if seeking answers in the white surface.

And just like every other time, there was none.

No great, deific horn sounding from the ethers with a tune loud enough to wash away her trepidations. No random gust of sacred wind that would show her the way.

Just the familiar nihility that managed to hurt even years after giving up.

Abbie shifted, her hand seeking the red mark on her neck. She initially deduced that it was a bug bite. However, as time wore on and there wasn't an itch, ache or inflammation, the idea was scrapped. Perhaps it was a rash? Or an allergic reaction?

Though the way Adaeze glowered at her neck, she couldn't imagine it was either.

She let out a groan, rolling onto her side and staring at the plain wall.

Is this how she was going to spend her days off? Wallowing in self-pity and contemplating if she'd gone delusional?

It surely wasn't what she had in mind when Irving bent a few rules to a give her a break.

Somewhere between working nine plus hours at the station and swallowing Advil pills like they were water, he must've figured that she was going off the deep end with this case. She spent long periods in isolation, mulling over the autopsy reports and the mounting list of missing peoples without resting. When offered snacks—namely from Luke, who was fretful for her health—she'd decline, never taking her eyes away from the computer screen or sparing them words of reassurance. Niceties such as _"I'm okay" _or _"everything's fine"_.

She wouldn't lie to them the same way she was lying to herself.

Abbie sat upright, scooting to the edge of her mattress. She held her head in her hands, wiping her forehead and eyes.

After her mother was sent to the ward, the judge advised her and Jenny to go to therapy. To seek rehabilitation after years of psychological abuse and religious trauma. But of course then—her eighteen-year-old mind ready to leave everything that had to do with her mother behind—she refused. Her sister underwent three months before following suit.

Now she thought the damage was finally starting to catch up to her.

Abbie stumbled into the bathroom, flicking on the light. She stared into the mirror, taking note of her listless state. The lackluster hair, almost grayish skin and puffy lids. She both appeared and felt as if she was ready wither away. It was no wonder Irving all but hauled her out of the office yesterday—exhaustion was settling in worse than she anticipated.

And in that next moment, Abbie had a notion. Being alone was proving to be counterproductive—she made the erroneous assumption that it would clear her mind—and she really, _really _needed a drink right now.

The club seemed like a fix.

Although she loathed the club scene—being around horny drunks in a closed space was nauseating—it wasn't like there were many other options. She needed to be around people—they could be her safeguard in case she decided to do something reckless in a fit of delusion—and find something to do with herself since she couldn't rely on her work to be an anchor for the next two days. If she continued to just _sit _there, stewing in this abyss of woe and ambivalence, she was going to lose her shit. Maybe a couple—or numerous—shots of hooch and a trashy song would be her tonic for the night.

So for the first time in a year and a half, Abbie got dressed to go party and drink like she was seventeen again. She decided to keep her outfit somewhat modest, choosing a strapless, black cocktail dress that ended below her mid-thigh. Golden studs and a thin anklet were her only accessories; her makeup light, but enough to hide the hollow look she'd taken the moment the disappearances began.

She grabbed her wallet, heading out of the apartment. The night was blustery and humid, air saturated and prepared for a tempest. A dense, dark overcast swirled in the ethers. Moonlight scarcely touched the earth, its luminescence trapped as a halo within the clouds.

A powerful gust blew her hair back, the strands tickling her shoulders. Tonight's weather was going to be absolute bullshit, but she couldn't risk being home alone. She took in a deep lungful of air, exhaling in hopes to calm her paranoia.

It didn't.

The ride to the club was silent. The radio, even on its lowest tune, felt too raucous and distracting. Like she was supposed to heed something, but _what _she could not comprehend. When she pulled into the parking lot—bass vibrating her entire car—the feeling augmented. It sewed itself deep into her consciousness and made its home.

Unfortunately, the line to the club was long. Lengthy to the point it wrapped around the front of the building and ended in the back. The establishment was new, one of the few spots in Sleepy Hollow that appealed to a younger crowd. Everything about the place screamed rebellious youth—from the sharp red and black décor to the "edgy" name _Diable_.

Abbie was only twenty-seven, but she felt too mature for this crowd. Whether that was because of her fucked up childhood or the simpletons behind her making penis jokes, she didn't have time to contemplate; she was already at the front of the line.

Upon opening up the door, her senses overloaded. The intense bass stirring her insides, the fetor of cheap perfume and sweat, the cold air blasting her hypersensitive skin from the vent above.

The flashing red lights.

The bodies pressed against each other.

The possibilities.

Saying that she was "out of practice" with the whole club shebang was a severe understatement.

Instead of finding her way to the crowded dance floor like everyone else pouring into the building, she made a beeline to the bar. Abbie didn't bother excusing herself as she snaked between people, occasionally shoving those who were too sloshed to recognize her presence. She'd only been there for less than three minutes, but yet she was ready to leave.

_Not yet. Not just yet._

She made it to the sleek, black bar table and plopped onto the chrome stool. The bartender came to her aid, providing her request of _"one big ass glass of rum" _within moments of the words tumbling out of her mouth. Either _Diable _had the best bartending service around or he could actually _feel_ her desperation for liquor.

She wished it was the former.

Her drink—not that she anticipated anything better—was diluted and seedy. Something about the way it scratched against her throat was revolting—but _honestly_? She couldn't give a fuck about that. She slogged it back and emptied the glass in mere seconds. Abbie screwed her eyes shut, her chest heaving with the searing heat spreading throughout.

Despite the piss-poor quality of the liquor, it was doing its job. The club began melding from this sordid, den of inequity—fully equipped with people damn near fucking each on the dance floor—to a haven. A sanctuary. Where even the harrowing deliberations of _werewolves _and _demons _couldn't burden her.

If her colleagues could see her now.

She swayed her hips the beat, letting the music guide her body and thoughts. While Abbie wasn't dancing with reckless abandon—no matter her state of sobriety, it was just one thing she _didn't do_—she was warming up to this place. Here and its cheap liquor and lewd music and overpriced entrance fee.

Though, that could have very well been the liquor talking.

She turned back around, waving the bartender for her—third? _Fourth_?—cup of rum. It was obvious she was calling a cab tonight.

"Enjoying your time?"

She pretended she didn't hear him. As if he didn't appear from who-knows-where with a stupid grin on his face and the dumb, glassy look in his eye that every other aroused, smashed guy in the joint had.

"I see, you're one of the silent types. Gotcha."

She hoped he would catch a clue when she didn't spare him another glance. He didn't leave.

It was ticking into the fifth minute of him standing at her side—a little too closely, may she add—before the stumped fuse that was her patience got a _little _shorter.

"What do you want?" she bit out, swirling the last of her liquor in her cup.

He threw his hands up, but the devious, shit-eating grin remained. "Nothing, nothing! Just a nice guy looking for a decent time with a pretty girl."

"Not interested."

His shoulder bumped hers, lips a scant inch away from the shell of her ear.

"I can probably change that."

Like hell he could.

Just as the last sips of rum hit her tongue, she felt a very unwelcomed hand against her backside. An aggravated groan escaped her lips. It was only a matter of time until the oversexed Neanderthal would get handsy, despite her indicative aloof expression and obvious avoidance of the dance floor.

"Move it or lose it."

She gave him half a second.

Abbie removed his hand herself, twisting his wrist at an awkward angle until he let out a yelp. She fucking _hoped_ she broke something.

Abandoning her drink at the counter, she slid off of her seat and headed towards the exit. She's had just about enough of the club anyways; the area was thinning out and it was late.

Outside remained in its foreboding state, clouds still swirling above. The parking lot was startlingly empty for a Saturday night after the club, but the imminent gale must've sent many on their way home before they got trapped in the thundershower. If she wasn't too busy drowning her liver, she would've left sooner, but alas.

A harsh gale almost knocked her off her feet, but the petite lieutenant continued on her journey back to her car; she needed to grab her keys and her phone before hailing a taxi. Regrettably, the jeep was parked in the far corner of the wide lot. The place where the dumpster, bugs and _whatever _else chose to reside in the foliage.

Loud footsteps thundered behind her. She gripped the hem of her dress.

"Aye!" he called.

Abbie continued to stride, ignoring him and the clamminess in her palms. She's dealt with this before—the catcalling, the harassment. In the nadir of her life, it became commonplace. She inured this treatment ages ago. Nonetheless, there was something inexplicably _uncanny _about the entire situation.

The sensation was parallel to the moment in the car.

"_Aye_!" he flew into her line of view, standing in front of her like a blockade of skin and muscles. She proceeded to sidestep him, but he shot out and seized Abbie's arms, ramming her up against the wall.

Eyes squeezed shut, she let out a stuttering breath. Lights exploded beneath her lids. Fire ignited in her skin.

Rough, calloused fingers pulled her head down, her face a hair's breadth away from his.

"_Open your eyes_."

And when she did, she saw red.

Crimson. Scarlet. Vermillion leering back at her with such _corruption _and _lasciviousness _she could feel her body rot where he touched her.

Then there were the thick, ridged pieces of bone jutting out from either side of his skull. The ashen, veiny skin. The _tines_, the _talons, _the—

She acted before she could fully process her actions, her fist soaring out and connecting with his jaw in a powerful _snap_! He staggered backward. She dropped like a sack of sand.

Ignoring her sluggishness, nausea, and ache, Abbie ran. She ran as if all of Heaven and Hell was nipping at her heels. As if the ground beneath her was caving in with every heavy footstep.

The jeep moved closer through her narrow sightline. Yards fused into feet; feet merged into inches. She was _almost _there.

But almost wasn't enough.

Claws raked along the side of her arm. Blood sprayed her window.

Abbie lost balance and nearly tumbled to the floor, but she caught her balance in the last second.

That _beast _drew his blood-slicked fingers into his mouth, closing his eyes as if he were tasting the finest of delicacies.

Using this window of time, she yanked her car door open and scrambled in. One hand slammed down on the lock button while the other sought the right key.

_Shit, shit, shit, **shit**._

Body trembling and flooded with adrenaline, she thrust the key into the ignition. The car roared to life just as he finished lapping her essence from his digits. Abbie threw her car into reverse and slammed on the gas. The tires whined as the car flew rearward and barreled into the fiend. She didn't dare look behind as she peeled away from the lot.

**_iii._**

She didn't have the slightest clue what she was doing anymore. Her mind was too frazzled to form coherent thoughts, body too numb to complete any movement with an ounce of grace. So she didn't move, she didn't think. Instead, she chose to let her head rest against the foggy car window, vacuous eyes looking at all, but taking in nix.

Her arm was stiff and sore underneath her leather jacket. Partially from the abnormal, cold weather that always surrounded this place, the rest from the wound she received from that _thing_.

Abbie closed her eyes, hysteria rising in the pit of her stomach yet again.

Thing, _thing._

How long did she plan on calling it that? How long did plan on pussyfooting around the name as if it would lessen the reality of this situation?

_The Devil_.

Automatically, her mind scorned itself for thinking back to Adaeze and her tarot cards—but she silenced the opposition. This was _twice_—thrice, counting the disappearances—that paranormal incongruities have plagued her existence. The first instance, she chalked up the experience as deliriums from stress.

But this time?

She couldn't negate what she saw, what she _felt_. There was no longer the option to pretend it didn't happen.

The air trapped in the car became too stuffy, so after an hour of sitting impassively, she opened the car door and hobbled out.

Even through the gloom, she noticed the manor was renovated from the time she last recalled. Weeds and brambles have been unearthed, the once rusted gates restored to its original inkiness. The wildflowers and vines that overran the vast lot were expunged and replaced with an assortment of ivory flora. Water trickled from the angel fountain as its white marble glistened with new fervor.

While the chilling ambiance and dated look remained—she didn't think it would ever wane, irrespective of its refurbish—the sign of life was clear.

She eyed the medieval knockers before her, which she now realized were—ironically—carved into the shape of a wolf's head. How she missed this detail two weeks ago was beyond her. Although, then she wasn't bedeviled by everything that pertained to Lycans.

Abbie slammed the knockers down onto the door. The acoustic sound reverberated throughout the front yard. Aside from the constant, coursing fountain and the wind brushing past her ears, it was quiet with no movement from the other side of the wooden barriers.

She knocked again, unease slinking its way into her system. Though as before, there was no response.

One last time, she banged the clunky knocker against the door.

Unlike her last encounter in the manor, the door didn't swing open to reveal a miffed man, haphazardly dressed and full of paradoxes.

She shouldn't have been nearly as thwarted by this as she currently was, honestly. As she withdrew her cold hand from the metal ring, she _shouldn't_ have been teeming with dismay and dread that made her lips quiver and vision blur. Nonetheless, she was, and because of that, she found herself sliding to the floor, crippled by her emotions.

Cool water hit her skin. Gentle at first, nearly illusory. Then it began to pick up, the feather light touches morphing into fat droplets that hammered down with conviction. Everything in sight bathed in rain, accompanied by the usual brume. Thunder rumbled violently; the ground quaked with each clap.

She was completely soaked through. Her hair clung to her skull and rivulets streamed down her face, but she didn't—_couldn't_—care. Abbie pulled her legs to her chest a buried her face into the crook between her knees, body trembling in time with the thunder.

At some point between the lightning and shower, she fell asleep.

At some point between the fitful writhing, _he _returned.

She didn't realize it at first, her inert body locked into a deep slumber. But as she felt warm hands heating her frigid skin, she waded through the unconscious haze and came to. Abbie blinked slowly, confusion apparent on her face until recognition settled in like a stone in a current.

The Devil. The manor.

"_Miss Mills_!" He stressed, worry stricken. His voice sounded like a sledgehammer against her head. She squeezed her eyes shut, a pathetic groan reverberating in her throat.

Crane brushed her sopping hair away from her face, tucking the strands behind her ears. He delicately pulled her up from curled position. Her body feeling too cumbersome and lethargic to stand upright, she leaned against the cranny of his arm.

Abbie could hear his heart thrumming against his chest. He was so warm.

Crane crammed his free hand into his pockets as he fished around for the key. Moments later, he jammed it into the keyhole and threw the door open, ushering her inside.

She let out a shuddering breath, staring into the pitch blackness in the ballroom. Moments later, light flooded the baroque styled area from the chandelier. Crane moved back to her, close enough for her to feel his immense body heat, but far enough for her to breathe comfortably. He took in a deep breath through his nose, face flickering with emotion seconds later. She caught a glimpse, but it was gone before she could properly analyze it.

She supposed he wanted an explanation. Hell, if she was him, she'd want a reason, too. After all, he _did _find her out cold on his doorstep during a thunderstorm; never mind the fact it must've been three or four o' clock in the morning. However, Abbie couldn't form an excuse. She couldn't elucidate her dilemma in coherent words, seeing she could barely grasp the situation herself.

She glanced elsewhere, jaw set.

"I believe you." It was the best starting place she could manage. She licked her lips, meeting his unreadable depths with unguarded sincerity. She didn't have anything else to lose tonight. "I…I _believe _you."

Crane just stared at her, mystified. As if she was the most riveting and bemusing one between the two of them.

"I'm assuming this revelation didn't come from thin air." he said evenly, eyeing her carefully.

She let out a mirthless laugh. It sounded more like a sob.

"No, it didn't," Abbie shrugged her jacket off her shoulders, peeling the wet fabric from her skin when she came across the open wound. Three long, festering gashes marred her arm, and _shit _it looked worse than she thought. She fought back a grimace. "Tonight was kinda' a wakeup call."

Crane's eyes flew open. He took two strides and was upon her, her arm cradled in his wet palms. His mouth parted, eyes darting from the scarred flesh to her face as if the situation was hard to grasp. His scrutiny caused gooseflesh to rise up her neck.

He observed the wound, eyes narrowed, Adam's apple bobbing in a tense swallow. Gingerly, Crane traced his finger down the edge of the cuts, then visibly bristled.

"The creature that attacked you," he began, a shrill note in his voice. "Did he have black eyes and horns sprouting from his skull? Was he incessant and lewd?"

She nodded numbly, then croaked a "yes."

In seconds, she was nothing but a sopping, tiny bundle in his hold. Wind tossed her hair, accompanied by an abrupt change of scenery. She no longer stood in the ballroom collecting water beneath her feet, but in what she assumed was the kitchen.

Crane set her down, perched on a slick, marble countertop. The icy stone sent a chill up her spine. Abbie blinked and glanced owlishly around in the gloom.

"What the f—"

"Pardon my crass behavior," Crane interrupted, drawing away. His hands planted on either side of her, splayed against the surface. "But this is a _very _dangerous situation you've found yourself in."

Her eyebrows pinched together. Her heart slammed in her chest at a dizzying pace.

"I don't u-understand," she stammered. A chill burrowed through her dress, past her skin and made its home in her bones.

Crane disappeared for a second. The lights snapped on.

She moved to prod the new injury, but he grasped her fingers in his hand.

"Don't do that."

"Well, can you explain what the hell's going on?"

"Incubus are the most disease-ridden fleabags to ever scour the Earth," He soared around the kitchen, throwing open cabinets and drawers in an orchestra of trills. He disappeared into his pantry, returning with wads of roots and leaves. "A lifespan of bedding anything with a heartbeat is quite the time to build a list of infections. The moment they break through your skin, all of that filth gets transmitted. It's highly contagious to other humans, but luckily all reversible." Crane added, noticing her horrified expression and taut muscles.

He twisted the top off a jar, emptying what looked to be rat bones into a pestle and mortar. Within moments, a fine white powder clung to the pestle. An assortment of indiscernible liquids blended into the mixture. When he successfully concocted the most disgusting thing she's ever seen her life, he pressed it to her limp fingers.

"Drink this," he commanded. She didn't. "The only other option is to amputate your arm."

"Alright, I _get _it." She brought the mortar to her lips, then pulled away. Crane sighed. "So you're telling me I'm holding the cure to sexually transmitted diseases in my hands right now?"

Crane scoffed. "This only works for entity-induced illnesses. Whatever humans catch from your godless trysts cannot be fixed by magic."

With that, Abbie knocked her head back and downed the sludge. It almost came up all over her dress.

"Jesus _fuck_," she rasped, wiping her mouth.

"Quite the blasphemous tongue, Miss Mills."

_You try drinking this shit_, she almost spat, but remembered she was living off his kindness. He slipped out of the kitchen and reappeared minutes later with a roll of gauze. Crane snipped it, wrapping it firmly around the wound.

"How long until I'm cured?"

"You should be fine by sunrise. Unfortunately, I don't have anything for the actual wounds themselves; those will leave scars."

It was just adding to the collection at this point. Crane rapped his knuckles against the marble, the light knocking filling the hush. His lips pursed together, something obviously on his mind.

"I hate to unload this onto you, especially at such an ungodly time when we're _both _fatigued, but you do realize there's no going back?" Abbie met his eyes with a stare. "This path you've been put on doesn't have any escape routes. You're aware of the unnatural things that occur in this world—things that have been barred from human knowledge as far as time goes back. After tonight, you have the option to be an asset or a liability. You can assist in ending this reign of terror, or harbor this secret for the rest of your life and do nothing with it." He blinked. "It's your decision; I won't fault you for choosing the latter."

"Why did you choose me?" she asked quietly. "Why did you choose to tell me about all of this? Why not anyone else?" She could list about twenty other people who could handle this situation better than her, starting with Irving.

He tilted his head, a lock of hair swaying over his face and tickling his nose. "It was instincts, mostly. You're a good person Miss Mills," that statement was laughable, considering her history. "I could sense that when I met you. It's…_pure_. You're different from many colonels I've met in the past because of your genuine interest to protect and serve." He shrugged. "Mayhap fate intervened too; it's solely by chance we met twice that week."

_That's right. The wolf in the woods._

Surely she couldn't be _that _easy to read; she didn't become a lieutenant with a weak poker face.

"You must be weary," he said, breaking the pregnant silence that settled between them. "And cold. If you don't get warm soon, you'll be ill by dawn."

Abbie chewed on her lip, her eyebrow raising.

"Are you suggesting I stay here for the night?"

"Unless you want to take your ventures with the wrath of nature, then I advise so."

His locked eyes with her, waiting for a response. After a second glance, perhaps he waiting for something else, too—what that could be, she didn't know; his irises were a maelstrom of emotions.

She figured she didn't have much else to lose at this point, seeing she was still picking shards of her dignity off the floor. She wiped water away from her face with her uninjured arm.

"Lead the way."

And with that, Crane stepped in front of her, hands laced behind his back. Abbie narrowed her eyes, her diagnostic, inquisitive side taking over; this was the first time she could get a good look at him. His palms were reddened with various welts, his clothes in no better of a state with shards of glass and wood sticking to the cottony material. The first time she met him, his hair was disarray, but the way he sported his wild, unshorn locks now looked downright feral. Even through his poise and confidence, she could detect the stutter in his steps.

The urge to ask what occurred died on her lips; she wasn't the one for sharing, and whatever transpired prior was none of her business.

He halted at one of the many doors dotting the hallway, twisting the knob and swinging it open. She stepped inside, hands rubbing against the wall for a light. After a few seconds of fruitless patting, she noticed a fussy lamp perched on a desk and flicked it on. The room was just as ornate as the rest of the manor. The walls were a glossy ecru, the ostentatious, démodé sheets a matching tone. A wide painting of a wintry timberland hung opposite of the bed; adjacent to it was a long, arching window with a view of the woods out back. Aside from a dresser, a counter, and door that probably led to a bathroom, the room was plain.

There were a few odd personal touches to the quarters that threw her off; like the _Beatles _bobbleheads standing precariously on top of the dresser. Or the retro, prop guitar slanted against the closet door. Telltale signs that someone once occupied this room.

Abbie walked over to the windowsill, staring into the abyss outside. Lightning illuminated the scenery in quick bursts; thunder followed seconds later.

She felt a warmth caress the side of her neck, but when she turned, no one was there. She gaped at the closed room door, mouth pulled down into a frown and fingers rubbing over the bruise.

Letting out a frustrated sigh, she gingerly tugged off her sodden clothes, careful not to irritate her wounds. Her soiled dress and bra were the next to go, her panties shortly after. She opened the bathroom door and ran a hot shower, nearly falling asleep under the pressurized jets.

When she got out, she went digging around for some kind shirt to put on. Sleeping in someone's guestroom completely naked didn't sit right with her, even if she did already lock the door.

The third drawer in the dresser bore gifts. A bunch of tawdry band shirts folded atop of one another; striped boxers and ankle socks in the drawer below. All of the clothing were several sizes too big, but she wasn't given much else to work with. These out of date t-shirts and oversized pants would have to do until she could leave.

However, her quandary was making "until she could leave" a pretty far-fetched date. That creature was out there somewhere, undoubtedly. Maybe even upturning every stone in Hell for the one who steamrolled him like a rodent. That son of a bitch was the reason she'd hightailed it straight into Putnam County's backwoods, hoping the one who began her consternations would also end it.

She threw on the boxers and a _Metallica _shirt before nuzzling into bed, going out before her head even hit the pillow.

**_iv._**

It was still gloomy and pouring, much to her displeasure. Thunder continued to roll, lightning bolts still split the sky and the clouds persisted to weep and unleash its ire upon the earth. Hell, she'd say it was even worse than last night. This time around, the gales were carrying branches and leaves. Maybe if she looked close enough, she'd spot some livestock in the mix, too.

It couldn't have been past six—maybe seven—o' clock. Though without the sun to guide her, it was hard to tell. She usually wasn't roused this early on her days off, but storms scared the shit out of her since she was a toddler. The thunder always used to shake her little home, and on several occasions, hail came flying into her bedroom through broken windows.

It was a fucking mystery how she slept on the porch earlier.

Abbie rubbed the sleep out of her eyes, stretching her arms above her head. She recoiled, the wound making itself known through sharp, wiry pain. Her stomach growled moments later, almost as loud as the racket outside. A second after that, a hangover decided to show its horrid face. It was as if all of her body's problems came rushing back to her.

The lieutenant wasn't one for snooping around—obviously, unless her work called for it—but she was goddamn starving and in need of food. Crane—like the perplexity he is—was nowhere to be found and she wasn't blessed with the patience to wait around until he appeared to eat. She could physically feel her stomach consuming itself, seeing that she hadn't a bite since going to _Adaeze's Undead Emporium_.

Which, by the way, was nearly twenty-one hours ago.

The hallways were painted in blackness, just as glum as the rest of the manor. The only sound was the drumming from the rain and her heels scuffing against the ground. She wandered each corridor, eventually walking around in circles in an attempt to find the kitchen. On the outside she was able to tell the manor was huge, but as she finally got an exhaustive look at the sweeping, high ceilings, gold-plated staircases and infinite corridors, "huge" was no longer a word to label it.

It looked like a mini Versailles.

Abbie craned her neck, spellbound by the chilling, classical artwork gracing the roof. Her dark eyes drank in every careful brushstroke and mien on the subjects' faces. She was never one to _really _appreciate art, but she had to give credit where it was due.

The grumbling in her stomach reminded Abbie of her mission. She snapped her head back down and returned to the task at hand.

_He needs to hire a guide or something_, she thought bitterly, walking past the same set of doors for the nth time. As if spared, the bowed opening leading to the massive kitchen came into view. Nearly dying yesterday didn't give her the time to absorb the grandeur of the area. There were several wide, oblong windows facing the woods. Every culinary machinery she could think of—plus some—was present, making her wonder if Crane cooked or was some renowned, five-star chef she somehow didn't know about.

It sure as hell would explain how he owned all of this shit, let alone where all this money was coming in from.

Abbie opened a pantry door. She blinked once. Then twice. Then another after that.

_What the hell?_

She thought she had a drinking problem, she really did. Sometimes she indulged a drink or two and felt embarrassed about it, putting down the bottle for months at a time. Last night was a reminder why she didn't do it often.

_However_, Crane's issue—if she could even call it that—made hers pale in comparison.

The son of a bitch had every rack inside of the walk-in pantry _loaded _with liquor. Some bottles could scarcely squeeze onto the space it shared with dozens of others. It was like he was running an underground distillery.

She felt a twinge of pity, pondering what extremity would cause him to have a drunkard's wet dream inside of his kitchen. Although, she immediately reeled. She wasn't going to get attached to him or whatever he was going through; she had enough problems on her own.

She shut the pantry and moved to the fridge, hoping for some kind of snack. Her hunger and hangover were working together to create something vicious. Aside from copious amounts of water gallons, it was bare.

The freezer was worse. It wasn't empty like everything else, but now she wished it was.

There were several, frozen cuts of unpackaged, grayish meat stacked up against each other. Blood spattered against each side of the compartment as if Crane had thrown them in there while they were fresh and bleeding. Whatever this was, he didn't buy it from a store.

Bile rose up her throat and her heart began to hammer.

Lightning floodlit the kitchen. A silhouette danced on the walls.

She made a dash for the knife set on the marble island, unsheathing the largest blade. A door on the far left side of the kitchen creaked unlocked.

She held her breath.

It swung open; he noticed her immediately.

"Miss Mills?"

She gripped the knife like it was her last lifeline, pointing it at him. Her face was hard and impassive; she couldn't let him see she was weak. Frightened and vulnerable, like a shrew in a cat's den.

He stood rigid. Not aplomb and arrogant like once before, but crestfallen and tense. His lips were drawn into a tight line, fingers twitching with a need to touch something. He made an attempt to move, but her offending arm jutted out more.

She's seen what he could do, the speed he could travel. Without batting an eyelash, he could disarm her before she even had a chance to register. She wasn't a threat to him, but he stayed in his position as if she was the predator and he the prey.

"Abigail, _please_." His voice was even, but she could hear his desperation.

Another burst of lightning illuminated the somber room.

Her breaths came out in shallow puffs.

"What's in there?" she sounded more airy and lightheaded than she would've liked. He broke his gaze, flexing his fingers. "_Crane_."

"It's not human."

"But it's not an animal, either." She had a feeling she knew what it was. That same hunch in her car and at the club; it was here, too, constricting her chest with each labored breath. "I'm only going to ask you one more time; what the hell _is _that?"

She narrowed her eyes, watching Crane work his jaw a couple of times.

"He deserved to perish. He _had _to die—for your sake and others." She opened her mouth to speak, but he raised his finger, pleading for a moment. "I did what I had to, and for that, I am not remorseful."

That left one question.

"Then _why _is his body in your freezer?!"

His face was beet red, hot with embarrassment. He stared at his feet as if it held all the Seven Wonders of the World right between his toes. He curled his fingers at his side, refusing to look anywhere near her. She cocked her head to the side, eyes skyward.

This was ludicrous. Downright fucking insane.

"You were gonna' eat him, _weren't_ you?"

He shifted under her scrutiny. It was close enough to an answer.

Abbie dropped her arm, rubbing her face with her hand. She was still trying to wrap her mind around how her life went to shit so quickly. How she went from avoiding everything supernatural-related to being trapped in a house with a demon-eating werewolf.

Her mother was cackling just a bit harder.


	4. Crypt (The Asset)

***Edited: 1/5/16**

* * *

**_solstice_**

_crypt_

_(the asset)_

* * *

**_i._**

_These bodies—she could safely say—were worse than the last. _More sadistic—_somehow_—and convoluted. Instead of just crassly mincing the carcasses apart like before, they could detect a thought process. A notion or an idea that begged for ingenuity in their murders for the first time.

As a morbid joke, they dubbed this one "Party Streamers".

Abbie had to "thank" Luke for that.

The corpse was butchered into thin slivers. Their skin at least; she still had a hard time looking for the meat of the body. The pieces were then tied around the tree branches and left to hang like linen, flapping in the wind in front of the old church. That nauseating ooze slathered every single strip, and the glow from the police lights danced off them in tune with the sirens.

_Red, blue, white. Red, blue, white._

_They fucking knew._

She propped herself up against the squad car, a couple yards away from the scene. Her face stiffened, eyes taciturn and disengaged; the way they usually were these days. Her coworkers since learned to stop approaching her in this state; the attempts were futile.

Her fingers drummed against the warm hood of the car at the same pace as her heart. She needed to calm down; she needed to _breathe_.

The church members stood together in a tight cluster, glancing to and fro as if they expected a hellhound to burst through the thickets. Irving and Agent Reyes, one of the FBI sent down to observe the madness brewing in Sleepy Hollow, quietly probed for answers. From the detached stares and disconsolate expressions, it was evident any worthwhile information wasn't coming from them today.

Abbie gazed at Reyes's back, watching her head bob as she spoke. Lately, there were more FBI and journalists in Westchester than citizens; nevertheless, they caught no one. Yet they found no story but blatant buffoonery and bullshit scandals to stir the pot.

They wouldn't unearth anything valuable for this case, though. They never will.

_"The police will never be able to find these children. You won't, the detectives won't—literally _no one_ will be able find these people as long as you all keep thinking they're bloody damn **human**!"_

A warm gust tickled her neck. She pulled her jacket's collar up to her ears.

There was a loud shout; seconds later, the familiar prattle and clicking from behind the police blockade. An officer near her moved to address the issue, but Abbie waved her down, telling her to fall back with a flick of her wrist.

She had this.

Her strides were hard and assertive, screaming authority and solidity. Chin up, back straight, hands firm at her sides—even a slight sway of her shoulders to make the façade convincing. She couldn't let them see she was deteriorating. Couldn't let them know her psychical and mental health and has taken a nosedive. So she lifted her head a bit higher, made her back a smidge straighter and marched ahead.

The chatter grew nosier as she neared the barricade. Cameras glared in her eyes, but she pretended that it didn't make vision swim, standing firm with faux poise. Her subordinate backed away from the police tape, his lips pressed together and heart pounding at the hollow of his throat. She dismissed him with a nod.

"What seems to be the problem here?"

And like that, the rapid fire questions began.

"Lieutenant Mills, do you know what happened to Johnathan Fallon at—"

"—do you explain the zero percent of—"

"—County police_ really _doing their jobs, or are—"

"—nother murder? How are citizens supposed to feel safe if they can't—"

"—it true that you _slept _with a reporter and leaked information about the Sharon Ca—"

Microphones were thrust into her face, bulky recorders towering over her to get a close-up. The crowd of journalists have been growing steadily in the dormant city, but this one was amassed with people desperate for a glimpse of the case. It was obvious someone had tipped off the media.

She cleared her throat, putting on the most cloy, undeterred smile she could muster.

_Nice and bright for the cameras._

"Westchester County Police are doing all that we can to investigate the disappearances and murders. I can assure you that every one of our diligent officers are investigating each case _thoroughly_. We encourage the citizens not to panic, and to continue going about life as usual."

Her eyes roamed over the horde, noting all the frowns, pinched eyebrows and locked jaws. They wanted to see her scramble for purchase, to get livid and swing for the cameras like she did once before.

Her composure pissed them off, and like _hell _did she love it.

They began to probe again, even more far-fetched and outlandish than before, _frantic _for a reaction worth airing. Some went off on a tangent, querying the liability of several officers. Others chose to stick with the Sharon Carroll scandal, seeing that nothing piqued the audiences more than taboo sex.

Slander, libel, repeat. They've been doing the same shit for years.

Drawing the line after an immoral remark about Irving, she decided they've well overstayed their "welcome", indirectly threatening to get rid of their fancy cameras and nice cars with a fat law suit for trespassing.

She stared down every reporter as they left. Some were persistent and chose injudiciously to stay behind for a one-on-one, but a few carefully placed parking tickets and tow trucks got rid of that problem with haste. She gave credit to Reyes for the idea.

After the conundrum died down, she went back to her spot on the hood of her squad car, her thoughts returning to its usual vortex of distress.

It's been an entire month since she's seen _him_—_the werewolf, the perplexity_—that morning marking the thirtieth day. Ever since that tempestuous night she crawled to his doorstep—willing to throw away everything she knew kept her sane—he's disappeared off of the map. Vanished, as if he was a figment of her imagination all along.

That—out of everything—enraged her. It made her body shake, hands tremble and breathing stutter. He was the first person she showed a facet of vulnerability to in _years_, and in turn, he left her high and dry. He coaxed her to the brink of insanity and let her fall. He used her weakness—that need to do right, that _desperation _to heal others—and spun it against her so she could look at the world with fresh, raw eyes. But the moment she _truly _began to see, he was nowhere in sight.

And it hurt. It fucking tore her apart.

It reminded her of the reasons she lived by the rules that he threw away with abandon.

She pulled her blistering lip out of her mouth. Her hand continued to tap to the beat in her chest.

Soon enough, the scene played out like the others. Forensics plucked the strands of skin out the tree and packed it into bags. People dispersed and the cars pulled away, leaving the church behind in a plume of dust.

**_ii._**

August was cooler than July. Still warm since summer remained the dominant season, but merciful as the temperature gave way to the dawn of autumn. Showers brought amenable weather, and after being scorched by the sun several times over, she welcomed it with gusto.

Soft light flittered through the cracked blinds, rays dappling the plush carpet. Her apartment was enveloped in silence, no other noise present than her pen scratching against paper. Olden, lacuna-riddled books amassed atop of another, juxtaposed to her laptop with several tabs and articles pulled up. Empty coffee cups littered the desk, even more unfilled pill bottles veiled in the drawer beneath.

_In vain he attempted to speak; from that very instant_  
His jaws were bespluttered with foam, and only he thirsted  
For blood, as he raged amongst flocks and panted for slaughter.  
His vesture was changed into hair, his limbs became crooked;  
A wolf,-he retains yet large trace of his ancient expression,  
Hoary he is as afore, his countenance rabid,  
His eyes glitter savagely still, the picture of fury.

Abbie's eyes traced the elaborate lines etched onto yellowed parchment. She soaked in every detail of the print, following the bold curves and sweeping strokes accompanied with the unsettling text from _Metamorphoses_.

She rubbed her eyes with one hand, then used the other to _gently_ close the brittle manuscript. Abbie reached over to grab her mug, only to realize the last remnants of caffeine had been consumed an hour ago.

She was starting to lose her shit.

Though, now that she thought about it, she'd been sent down this lonesome, harrowing road long before werewolf folklore and brutalized carcasses became part of her daily life. Since before she'd met Crane or even became an officer of the law, she was damned to spend her days as a social stigma, counting down the time 'til she followed the—almost hereditary—ill fate of the women in her family.

Daughter of a homicidal psycho. Runaway problem child. Jailbird. Junkie.

Just a few monikers that stuck after her mother's conviction.

The doorbell rang. The chime resonated throughout her living room.

She rushed out of her seat, seizing the stacks of books, piling them into her arms and then depositing the ancient text into the nearest, sizeable drawer. With a sweep of her hand, all of the slapdash, frazzled transcripts and papers went flying into the compartment beneath her desk. She hastily tossed the empty cups into the trash beside her desk.

The bell rang again. Then twice—thrice!—until the ringing became incessant.

"I'm _coming_." she yelled, knowing there was only one person audacious—or senseless—enough to approach her on her day off.

She opened the door, running her fingers through her mussed ponytail. Luke stepped right inside and walked to the center of her living room, a pack of beer and a takeout bag in either hand. He placed both on the table, riffling in the bag for utensils.

"You know, a hello would be nice," she said. He grunted in response. A second after, Luke pulled a white box from the bag and nudged it against her limp fingers. The heady scent of teriyaki chicken, fulsome brown rice and a range of steamed vegetables wafted into her nose. Her mouth dampened with saliva. Even though her appetite has been quiescent as of late—the demanding case paired with the already hectic nature of working in the police force was noxious—she felt her palate stir.

Abbie plopped down on one of the seats and poked around her plate.

This wasn't the first time Luke casually popped in uninvited with food. During college, he used to stop by her old apartment—well after any respectable time—with an armful of _Little Debbie_'s, _Doritos_ and a variety of other unwholesome snacks. While he never directly clarified why he insisted doing this, she imagined it had to do with her affinity to not eat or sleep when she was engrossed in work.

Their friendship was spontaneous and improbable—she being introverted and he a socialite—but she had a hard time envisioning what her adult life would be without it. There wasn't a need for many words between the two; often times they'd be in key with each other's emotions without an utterance. A squint or a shift in posture was telltale enough for both.

That, of all else, she appreciated.

"Where's the ketchup?" Luke garbled, mouth full of rice and cabbages.

"Second drawer to the left in the kitchen."

For some ungodly, ludicrous reason, he felt the need to drown every article of food—no matter the conflicting savors—in ketchup. It was fucking disgusting—hell, downright _repulsive_, too—but she learned to stop grousing about it; it only made him pour more out of spite.

She wrinkled her nose, eyeing the stream of ketchup as it painted his plate in red.

"So how's it been?" he started several minutes later. She wiped her fingertips on a napkin, licking the traces of soy sauce off her lips.

_Lonely, miserable, arduous. _It was a loaded question and he knew it.

She should've suspected something when she noticed the meal was bought from _Mai Kai_'s instead of _China Moon_—seeing that the latter was not only tastier, but more costly and out-of-the-way than the former. While Luke wasn't cheap, he sure as hell wasn't didn't like driving—chiefly when said destination is more than twenty minutes away from either of their homes.

"Fine." was her simple, evasive reply.

She wasn't in the mood for a _kumbaya_, boy-scouts, storytelling session right now. Or ever, actually.

He pursed his lips together, meeting her guarded eyes with a dissatisfied stare.

"Really?" Luke scooted closer to the table. His hands laced together and tucked underneath his chin, simulating obliviousness. "I honestly wouldn't have guessed, 'cause you kinda' look like death warmed over."

She exhaled audibly through her nose.

"I _really _don't want to get into this with you."

"It's a _bit _too late for that," he pinched his fingers together, emphasizing "a bit". "Just in case you haven't noticed, everyone in the precinct is worried sick about you. I mean—you're not _eating_, you're not _sleeping_—"

"I said I'm _fine_."

"_Bullshit_, Abbie!" his voice cracked. Luke's foot tapped under the table. "You're not '_fine_'; you look like you're _dying_."

He waited for her to speak. She didn't.

"Is it the case?" he guessed. "Is that why you're doing this to yourself?"

"It's not the case." she said, hoarse with unexploited emotion. _At least, it's not _all _about it._

"Is it friends? A boyfriend? Your _mom, Jenny_—you have to give me _something_." There was a moment of silence. "Abbie, _please."_

She couldn't do it. She couldn't lie to him like this, yet she knew she had no other options. What would she have said? That she was too busy deciphering the paranormal realm to eat? Too busy obsessing about lycans to give a rat's ass about her health?

"You should leave." Abbie avoided his eyes, choosing rather to stare at the textured swirls in her wooden table. She heard the chair scuttle as it slid back, the sound of his pant legs rustling against each other right before the door opened and slammed shut.

**_iii._**

September was miserable. Unremittingly doleful with each passing hour—if not moment. Everything seemed to be monochromatic; the already gray environment of Westchester County—somehow—even more bleak and arid than before.

Sleepy Hollow was on edge, more so than the other cities in Westchester, let alone the entire state of New York. Neighbors distrusted neighbors. Friends questioned friends. Some extreme few up and left Sleepy Hollow before August phased by.

With Westchester being a site for over _half _of the murders relating to the disappearances, she found it hard to fault them.

Summer was distressing already, the sheer bafflement of the disappearances enough to drive a man insane. However, fall harbored a beast with a maw set out for everyone's lucidity. The already perplexing case only furthered its complications. Causalities skyrocketed from the starting three to a whopping thirty-eight within the span of a couple months. The amount of missing young adults in Sleepy Hollow spiked, but the percentage of them found lingered at the flat, merciless zero.

No bodies, no crime scene, no nothing.

Homeland Security was flummoxed, she knew it. There wasn't a branch in the government designed to deal with shanghaiing fiends belonging on an episode of the _X-Files_.

It _also_ didn't help that the vanishings were spreading.

Until two weeks ago, all of the crimes were concentrated in New York. Now, it peppered along the coast of California and Washington. A few going as far as the British Isles and at least three she knew of in Quebec.

Panic rose, masses horrified of the grisly massacres that failed to trace to a tangible suspect. Naturally, people pointed fingers and grasped at straws, searching for a susceptible scapegoat. For the U.S, "susceptible scapegoat" meant some minority group that drew the short stick this year would get pinned with the blame. She's already heard an earful of vain conspiracy theories linking the murders with the Al Qaeda; never mind the steaming load of bullshit pouring from the media—namely _FOX News _and _CNN_—that only added fuel to the flame.

Hell, if she wasn't a rational person and the goddamn lieutenant of the police department, she would've since slashed the tires of that news van always parked outside of the station.

Jenny sure as hell would've done it.

Abbie pressed the nozzle down on the water dispenser, listening to the gurgling as her cup filled with water. She brought her lips to the edge and sipped slow.

It was late—which has become the usual time for her to leave the station. Her shift ended two hours ago, but she figured it was better to stay until it was time to lock up. It's been three months since she's had an encounter with anything supernatural, yet her sporadic bouts of paranoia persisted.

She crumbled the paper cup and tossed it into the trash bin beside her desk. She hooked her keys around her fingers and shut off the light, leaving her office behind in shadows. Most of the station was shrouded in darkness, the only two other people still there being Irving and a custodian that got stuck with night shift.

She gnawed the inside of her cheek, watching the Captain's hands work his pen under a lone lamplight. She didn't know how he did it; somehow switching back and forth from a single father to an officer in charge of an entire police force. He did it with such ease and equilibrium that he made it appear seamless. However, she knew there had to be a hitch somewhere.

It was never that easy.

Pushing the door open, she stepped outside. The night air was cool, sky clear and speckled with billions of twinkling pinpoints. Crickets buzzed, owls hooted and frogs croaked in the distance, creating the opus of night.

By the time she drove home, she was beat. So tired that she didn't even care to microwave the leftovers from that morning or brush her teeth before laying out on her bed. Abbie pulled her sheets up to her ears, completely swaddled in its softness. She shut her eyes and focused on the darkness beneath her lids.

She was out in seconds.

**_iii.v_**

_The street was dark. Almost black. Maybe grey? She didn't know—not where the street ended or began. But she was there, and she was cold._

_There were street lights along each side of the lone, warped road. All holding hands by wires, blinking intermittently. Brown snow was pushed to either side of the path. The dirt was iced over, hard as stone._

_Hollow, deserted homes stood side by side. The brick house with the broken windows—she remembered that one explicitly. The smell of hot wax, fast food and strangers. The sound of hushed, nuptial quarreling. Sorrow. Resentment. Compunction._

_All of which were shared between the mother, daughter and sister. The father for a while, too. He was as strung up as the rope that hung from the tree._

_She heard a whistle. Loud and crisp, as if the person was right next to her. Everything seemed to move in slow motion as she turned her head._

_Rotting slabs of wood, termite-invested porch and a lawn with more brambles and weeds than grains of dirt. Beer and liquor, warbling Johnny Cash from a radio too old to still work, the acrid stench of sulfur. With grimace, she also remembered him too. Him and all of his drunken swears, and cans of _Budweiser _pooled around his tatty boots._

_He stared at her with glassy eyes, probably out of it. A few too many beers; he was drunk off his ass again. She knew it because he was perched on that rocking chair in front of his house. Knew it because his wife and son up and left him a couple weeks before. Knew it because that bottle of Jack he cradled like a newborn wasn't empty prior._

_He smiled at her. Not leering, not disdainful, but far from genuine. That toothy grin caught somewhere between gloating and knowing, he beckoned her with a finger._

_"C'mere, Abigail."_

_Her mother hated him._

_"Abigail."_

_She said she wanted to kill him._

_"Abigail!"_

_It's probably why she did._

"Abigail!"

Her eyes flew open. Her vision was blurry and disoriented; she squeezed her eyes shut.

But that _voice_. She knew that voice.

She also knew the texture of his fingertips against her skin, the distinct smell of sandalwood, earth and musk, the warmth that swallowed her whole.

"_Crane_?" she rasped.

This couldn't be real, but she learned how to suspend her disbelief a couple of months back. From the animated, long eyebrows to that worn, navy coat—it was indisputably him.

"Miss Mills, we have to _hurry_." Crane's giant mitts engulfed her wrists, urging her off her bed. She yanked her hands away from his.

God, who the _fuck _did he think he was?

He must've descried her cross expression, for he moved away within seconds. He inhaled, hands splaying then tightening in tension. He met her eyes with a beseeching stare.

"I promise I will explain everything, but unless you wish for us both to be caught 'twixt the teeth of a hellhound, I suggest we move _now_."

It didn't take much after that to send her scurrying right out of bed.

"Salt down every windowsill and entryway," He instructed, moving into her living room with his coat flapping in tow. Crane unfastened the strap holding his sword—something she just realized he was sporting—and placed it onto her couch.

Abbie sped to her kitchen, flinging open cabinet doors in frantic pursue for the salt. She scarcely cooked anymore, so chances were that if she had any salt, it was almost full. She spotted the container and began pouring it along the cool, marble lip of the nearest window. Her eyes flicked to and fro from her work to outside, quasi-expecting a face to abruptly materialize like one of those tacky horror films.

"Miss Mills," she heard him call. She grunted in acknowledgement, hands still shaking salt out of the container. "By any chance, do you have any virgin olive oil?"

"Bottom cabinet on the left."

The apartment was fortified quickly—only two minutes, actually. Every light in the home was shut, incense snuffed out. Hell, she had to snatch out her plugins and digital clock, too. Apparently anything remotely illuminant was off limits. Salt lined the entrances until the container emptied. Crane scrawled ineligible nonsense—a sigil of some type—on her front door.

All there was left to do was wait.

Abbie gripped her carpet with her fingers, heart thrumming in her chest. Her mouth was sticky and dry; everything was too close. Her eyes tracked every silhouette swaying against her curtains, but she saw nothing but the trees and its leaves brushing against each other in the zephyrs.

There was a rustle.

At first, she thought it was Crane shifting his position, but the second time she heard it, she realized it came from outside. Not a gentle susurrating from the coppices; it was the sound of something moving. Something meaty and huge.

There was another rustle. Then the infallible sound of snorting, huffing and nails scraping against the concrete. She could hear them stalking around her home in tight circles, yet her trained vision couldn't pick them up. Not even a fleeting shadow.

She glanced at Crane, watching his eyes trace seemingly nothing in the pale moonlight. His shoulders were raised, lips tugged in a frown. His breathing was shallow and—lunar glow aside—he looked ghastly ashen. Horror stricken. Paralyzed with seeded dread or bygone rancor.

Every second lasted entirely too long. Each moment held countless distressing contemplations or sniffing too near or loud for comfort. But eventually, these long moments began to meld into one another, and twenty-five minutes after, they were gone.

Crane was the first to stand up, bones cracking from sitting in the same, rigid form. Abbie followed seconds later, rubbing her hand over her face. She reached and flipped the switch, light blaring after sitting in the dark for what felt like eternity.

He was still visibly shaken, eyes gazing into nothing, and wiped his sweaty palms against the _démodé_ trousers that went out of style two centuries ago.

She knew a little about hellhounds—some of it prior knowledge, others from bits of text popping up in the ancient manuscripts—and what they did. Guard supernatural treasures, shield the gates of the inferno, hunt down souls of the damned. There was a whole list of things that hellhounds would appear for, and she—despite her numerous transgressions, several years of lying and shoplifting more times than she could count—didn't qualify for any of them.

Abbie watched Crane as he grabbed a rag and wiped away the oil, ire bubbling in the pit of her stomach. Her chest strained with emotion, her mind churned with all of things she wanted to say to him, but she could barely find a place to begin.

"Why?" was all she could manage. Crane turned her way.

"Pardon?"

"I said, _why_?" he furrowed his eyebrows, confounded. She continued. "Why, as in _why _are you here? _Why _now?"

He faced the door again, dabbing the sigil away at a slower pace. He was thinking. Planning his words carefully.

"I crossed the wrong territory," Crane began, enervation settling in his voice; tone as if he were retelling the trials of war. "A mass of land in Greenland that didn't belong to a coven afore, rather a pack of kindly _amaroks_. Alas, I didn't know this at the time and rushed in headfirst, only to be surrounded and ambushed in the heart of their land." He stopped cleaning the door completely, the wet rag limp in his grasp. "The coven sent scent-tracking hellhounds after me, but I disguised my musk. So they followed a faint trail all the way back to New York, and I hadn't known until recently."

It was an answer, though, not the one she sought. It was noncommittal, and both knew it.

She folded her arms and cocked her head. If he wanted to play these games, she'd let him.

"Alright," she said, feigning indifference. "So I suppose that's the same reason you went MIA for three months, too, huh?" He stiffened, but didn't reply. "'Cause I don't know if you realized this or not, but it was a piece of shit move, Crane."

There was a pause. He sighed.

"I'm aware of my wrongdoings, but my leave was strictly mandatory."

"Dropping by to tell me that you were leaving would've been too much for you? Or—I don't know—fucking give me some clue how to deal with the lycans before you hightailed it for a season?"

He rose from his crouched position, door clean from oil.

"Even _I _am not aware of how to end this. I don't have the slightest idea how lycans have conspired this plan and executed it faultlessly."

She almost snorted. "And I was supposed to figure it out while you were gone?"

"That wasn't my intention."

"That wasn't your intention," she repeated dryly. "Whether you meant it or not doesn't matter—we lost three months of time that could've been used trying to figure out what the hell is going on." Her patience was thinning quickly with his cryptic, elusive bullshit. "In this window, thirty-five other people are dead, around two-hundred more children are missing, and now the disappearances have spread outside of New York. I don't know—or _care_, actually—what you do with your time, but the world doesn't revolve around you and your schedule. The lycans apparently don't give a shit about your 'strictly mandatory leave', either."

They sat in silence, stewing in each other's words; simmering in the ones left unspoken.

"I was gone for a census." Crane confessed minutes later, woeful. "The incubus from ago struck me as odd. _He_—" Crane didn't attempt to hide his abhorrence in his tone nor mien. "—was rogue. A vagabond. Incubus aren't known to wander in packs like werewolves, but they avoid hunting alone since they're barely any stronger than humans. Forthwith, I inspected this variance, and what had only intended to be two days stretched on for months." A break, as if recalling tormenting imageries. "Hundreds of supernatural races are defunct; far more than I had initially predicted."

Her fury ebbed, but in its place were the dull oddments of grief and anguish; a feeling they were both intimately associated with.

"What now?" her question was vague and abstract; dozens of answers able to fill in the blank. However, Crane understood her encoded meaning.

"We move on. We fight." His voice was tilted with emotion she couldn't decipher.

"No more running off? No more secrets?"

He missed a beat. His middle finger twitched.

"Of course."

**_iv._**

The next day was filled with contriving and planning; a last ditch effort to make up for the time squandered. Abbie had an hour of rest—she couldn't even call it that, it was more like a nap—before waking up at ass o' clock in the morning, unable to get in another wink of sleep. Crane stayed over in the name of "persistent hellhounds" and assumed vigil on the living room sofa while she slumbered; so the second it turned six, both were already hard at work.

Despite yesterday's revelations, there was an atmosphere of apprehension that made them tiptoe around each other. Abbie straight-up refused to look him in the eye anymore (deep-seated abandonment issues just didn't up and leave without a fight). One incident where they bumped knees and Crane avoided the seat next to her like the plague. Other than the necessary words regarding the plan—which, by the way, was less of that and more of theories and disjointed ideas scrawled on paper—only breathing was to be heard.

Crane stood next to the window, staring into nothingness, an absorbed expression on his face. His hands locked at the base of his back, pinched eyebrows—either in thought or seemingly by default—and an erect posture that made him appear more regal and lofty than he already did. Meanwhile, she pulled out a thick, manila folder. Photos and packets threatened to spill out the sides, but she held it in a vice-grip. She smacked the papers down on the table, loud enough to draw Crane's attention.

He snapped his head her way. She arched a brow.

"These are some of the photos from the scene," Abbie mumbled, flipping open the folder. Several pictures slipped out. All were grotesque and featured body horror of every conceivable kind. Mutilated limbs, skinned corpses, hollowed torsos—it was like peering into the mind of Poe.

Crane, interest clearly kindled, sailed forth. His hands were all over the prints in a heartbeat, thumb pads grazing over the bodies as if he could touch them. Abbie grabbed a scrap sheet and scrawled her number on it.

"I have to go to the station for a couple hours; if you find anything just call my cell," she pointed to the telephone on the kitchen counter. "House phone's right there."

With that, she was off.

There was much to do at the precinct. Everyone was flying around the building. Phones buzzed ceaselessly. Irving got rid of two desperate journalists hovering by their doorsteps. She was pretty sure the nearby _Starbucks _was making its revenue solely from the officers and investigators in the Westchester Police Department.

Reports were delivered to her office in armfuls. They were down two officers—one from an illness, the other was pregnant—and their workload was being "distributed" around the office, although she could dispute that most of it ended up on her desk. Between fighting the forces of evil and fighting the forces of the stack of paperwork about to fall on her, she was swamped. The little _me time _she had before was eliminated, instead replaced with soiled books that reeked of mold and fungi.

However, she wasn't gonna' complain. If the end result was all this shit ending, she'd throw the rest of her sleep time into the fire, too.

She cautiously drew a file from the _Jenga _tower of manila folders. Abbie scanned the contents, familiar with the perpetrator. Jake Gordon; recent high school graduate, son of the school district headboard. He also doubled-up as a domestic abuser, underage drinker and a grade-A dickhead. She's seen him in and out of the pen before; she could usually connect with problem children, but this kid was a wreck.

There was another file for petty theft at _Kwick-Mart_, a couple misdemeanors and even more cases of DUI. A particularly stimulating one with a lady and her merry band of hippy, conspiracy theorists who blocked traffic, yelling into the midmorning crowd that aliens were responsible for the disappearances.

It didn't surprise her that they were also charged with drug possession.

Around noon, she got a call from Crane. She fished her phone from her pocket and slid unlock, pressing her warmed device against her ear. There was a bunch of muffled jumble on the other line. She caught a few words from him—something along the lines of "_most fascinating_" and _"astounding_"—but he was too far away from the microphone for her to confirm.

She licked her lips.

"Crane."

She heard the phone move.

_"Greetings, Miss Mills."_ More fumbling. A clearer reception. _"I've discovered something most intriguing."_

Abbie shoved her work aside and leaned into her desk.

"Go on. Spill it."

_"There's a pattern in the murders,"_ he began, a thrilled lean in his usual, cool timbre. _"The way each body is missing bits is miraculous."_

Her eyes widened at that, mind conjuring up images of the lacerated corpses.

"Miraculous?"

_"Although it doesn't seem so, it is true. For example—"_ papers rustled in the background_. "—Harry Harford. His body from his waist down is missing. James Raymond was decapitated and the remaining parts of his body has also vanished. Same with the young madam, Jolie Thompson, whose arms and legs were severed and never discovered. Several others are in similar conditions."_

Abbie chewed her lips, mind running at a hundred miles per hour.

"So what you're saying is that we have body-jacking lycans on the loose?"

_"Crudely put, but precise. They're picking apart humans, grinding and scattering the bodies to deceive us into thinking these are unsystematic."_

"Alright, but for what? I mean, there has to be a reason why they're stealing kids and bodies, let alone why they've decided to spring their plan into action _now_."

_"I know nothing of the bodies or the timing, but I am aware they're forming child army,"_

She nearly choked on her coffee.

"_What_?"

_"This isn't the first time they've tried to do this; although I've never seen lycans this organized afore. They're naturally dimwitted creatures; predecessors to werewolves who can't assimilate to this world. They're obsolete." _His voice dipped lower, almost husky in mounting suspicion. _"Which baffles me…they cannot be doing this alone."_

"Well, it's not like we've got many ways to figure out who's in cahoots with lycans." She added, swirling her cooling drink. "We can't even find them to begin with, and it's not like we can go ask the corpses which abomination stiffed them."

Crane inhaled sharply. She heard her chair fall over.

_"Brilliant! Absolutely brilliant, Miss Mills."_

Woah, woah, woah—_what_?

"You're not serious, right?" _Please tell me you're not fucking serious._

However, Crane didn't answer. The closest thing to a response she received was winded technobabble that—once again—was too far away from the microphone to understand.

She stayed on the line until her house phone hung up from being out of range.

**_v._**

Abbie Mills has done more than her fair share of appalling things in her life. Running away both figuratively and literally, smoking, drinking, _LSD_—the list went on. After sobering up and getting her shit together—she wished she got the chance to thank Corbin—the list of atrocities slimmed significantly. Aside from the occasional indulgence in alcohol, most of what she did was acceptable and completely legal.

What she currently was doing was not legal.

Not even close.

She eyed the man's distant figure as he retreated to his compact car, nearly slamming his door shut before driving off. She followed the vehicle down the narrow, dusky street until it sunk behind thick foliage. Abbie scanned the—now vacant—lot, fingers thrumming against the armrest.

Her jeep's door creaked as she pried it open. The humid night air immediately clung to her skin. Dried leaves and brittle twigs crunched beneath her boots, another set of crackling coming from the opposite side. Although no one was present at the remote bureau, they continued to be discreet. Measured, soundless breathing. Nimble, fluttering hands while they removed the equipment from her backseat. Gentle, feather-like footsteps—Crane more so than she—as they edged away from the verdure enclosing the firm to the pavement of the parking lot.

Scarce, dim lights shielded the morgue against the gloaming of nightfall, seeing the moon and stars were obscured behind an impermeable overcast. Some stood in the lot itself, even less outside.

Her fingers curled around rough bark as she scanned the area for cameras. One perched atop of the awning, swiveling side to side. Another almost went unseen at the rear of the building, the only indicator of its existence being the telltale glint across its receptors.

She heard Crane shuffle and adjust the hefty satchel wrapped across his chest.

"There's cameras there—" she pointed to the one at the entryway. "—and there." Crane didn't acknowledge her findings, but she knew he heard her. She scrutinized the surveillance, calculating its movement—they could slink around the blind spots, perhaps—when Crane surged forward, right into the line of sight. She resisted leaping after him, in lieu hissed under her breath.

Was he _trying _to get them caught?

He lifted his hand and—ever so flippantly—flicked his wrist. On cue, the lamps short circuited, going out in a torrent of sparks and busted glass. Aside from the emergency light inside of the building, the entire area was encompassed in blackness.

Smoke wafted into her nose.

"It's safe to venture now, Miss Mills." He said insouciantly through the gloom, as if he didn't just fucking take out all of the electricity with a simple _hand gesture_.

Abbie's heart raced and her mouth was suddenly dry—all the moisture relocating to her hands and neck—but she prevailed. Although she couldn't see him, she could sense his presence when she approached.

"I—uh," she fumbled lamely, failing to find comprehendible words to convey what she felt. "I didn't know you could do that."

"Most times I can't, but tonight the moon is whole."

They glided across the lot without another hitch. Crane led since he was the only one out of the pair who could see anything; Abbie followed a couple steps behind. Once they drew near the entrance, she slid her hands across the door until the cold knob brushed her palms. She jiggled it fruitlessly.

"'Don't suppose your fancy powers could unlock this?"

"I don't imagine you want me to tear them off the hinges; thus, no." He sniffed. "I'm afraid my abilities don't extend to being a master locksmith."

She felt around her ponytail for a hairpin, then worked on the knob. He loomed over her frame, watching her handiwork.

"What're you doing?"

"Old habits die hard," she said with a noncommittal grunt.

"How fortuitous; an officer of the law with a criminal past." He hummed, voice an octave higher with rapt interest and laced in mischief. "Imagine the delinquency we can perpetuate if we put our minds to it."

Before she could consider his proposal, there was a metallic click. She turned the knob and pushed the door.

It was just as frigid as she imagined, if not colder. The emergency light provided little luminescence to the foyer of the morgue. The LED from the exit signs washed the end of the hallway in red. Everything had a clinical smell that reeked of chemicals.

She stole a glance at Crane, his nose wrinkled and lips curled. At least they could agree on that.

She strode over to the directory plastered on the otherwise stark, white walls. The firm was pretty cramped, but she didn't want to be there any longer than she had to; the first door she opens in this god forsaken place better be the right one.

"Found it."

Abbie strode down the hallway, Crane a pace after. The chemical odor intensified as they neared the body chamber. The twin metal doors were locked, but a couple minutes and two broken pins later, they were wide open.

She flipped on the light, glad to see the backup generator concentrated most of its energy into the autopsy room.

The area was unadorned and white, accented only with gray and silver from the countertops and equipment. In the center was the autopsy table with a mass of lighting gear hovering above it. To the left were the body lockers, where you could pull out remains like they were sock drawers.

She fucking hated the post-mortem process.

Light thumping sounded behind her. She swirled around to face Crane's back as he unloaded the items from the satchel. Lamb's blood, ashes of a saint, belladonna flowers; nothing you'd find at your local Wal-Mart, but were all provided by Crane's manor. There was also a spell book, _Vivere Rursus_, so sinful and ungodly it had to be wrapped in a pall blessed by a reverend to stop it from influencing things around them.

While she was currently in a room with a werewolf and twenty other dead bodies, it was not something she wanted to think about.

At all.

Crane unpacked the rest of the items, laying them out on the counter. He wandered over to the clipboard hanging beside the door, keys dangling from it.

"Number fourteen," he muttered to himself. She watched him unfasten one of the body lockers with the key, sliding the mass of metal open. Abbie looked elsewhere when he began hauling the cadaver out.

When he finished moving the carcass onto the examination table, she spared the victim a glimpse. His chest cavity was hollowed, everything in his torso missing. Lungs, kidneys, heart, intestines—all nowhere to be seen, leaving nothing but skin, muscle and clipped veins behind. There were a couple minor scrapes and cuts along his forearms. His jaw warped at an irregular angle, same with two fingers and his left hand.

Crane grabbed the rope from the bag and wrapped it around his wrists and legs, fastening him to the table. He didn't so much as bat an eye at macabre of it all. A chilling nonchalance.

That disturbed her.

He was back at the countertop—which resembled an alchemist's working area, rather—seconds later. Mortar and pestle in hand, he ground the belladonnas and ash together. He poured lamb blood into the mix. Before she knew it, Crane successfully concocted the most sordid, vile liquid she'd ever seen in her life.

She'd take Luke's ketchup-slathered takeout over this any day.

He dipped his fingers into the mortar—turbid blood trickling down his index—and crouched, smearing indecipherable characters onto the ground. Several agonizing minutes advanced, he stood up from his crouched position. Surrounding the body was an encircled pentagram. Diminutive, intricate characters filled in the gaps between the star and the adjoining circle. Every mark was deliberate, exact. No stray smears or lines blemishing its labyrinthine designs.

It was a marvel how he remembered it all.

Crane eyed the contents left in the mortar. He swirled it around, then brought it to his lips and knocked it back like liquor.

Her mind reeled.

"Isn't belladonna poisonous? You know, _nightshade_?" She wasn't a university certified botanist, but this was common knowledge. However, he didn't seem alarmed. He drew a tiny sprig from his mouth.

"Highly, even more so to lycanthropes. In fact, so lethal that another dose would be enough to end me right now as I stand." He shook his head, eyes downcast while he inspected the shred of belladonna between his pads. "The modern perception of the supernatural world is trivialized to the point of absurdity. _Everything_ revolves around martyrdom. It's what you are willing to give in turn for what you desire. For your cause." His eyes flicked towards the corpse. "This body, for example. In order to breathe life into him, I must sacrifice some of my own."

"You're going to _kill _yourself?"

"No, but this process will remove a few years from my lifespan."

She wrung her hands. He stretched his fingers. Abbie licked her lips in apprehension, running her fingertips across the rough parchment of the blasphemous book. The lights blinked.

"Anyone can do spells," he reassured, somehow sensing her tacit hesitation. "Although without aid from a witch, there are quite literally _hundreds_ of ways this entire plan can fall apart. Congregate all the deceased within a mile radius, slay both of us, raise spirits from—"

"I get it," she cut in before he got carried away in the grim minutiae. "Don't fuck up."

He tilted his head at her, a ghost of a smirk on his lips.

"Precisely." Crane rolled the navy coat sleeve up his arm; his veins were ruddy and protruding against his ashen skin. A light sheen of sweat slickened his neck, bangs saturated and glued to his forehead. Florid rings tinged his lids. His pupils were specks amongst a turbulent sea of blue. "Are you ready, Miss Mills?"

_Fuck no._

"Yeah," she sounded breathless. He flattened his palm against the victim's skull.

The text was in a different language—Haitian Creole? _French_?—to her chagrin. When she enunciated the words she slurred, irresolute what letters the slipshod penmanship tried to depict. Abbie was sure she'd mangled most—if not all of them—since the only experience she had with foreign linguistics was in her freshman year of high school.

That was Spanish.

She also failed that class.

When she yielded no results, they both cast a sideways glance at another. No convulsing bodies, no spasming limbs or shit soaring around in a spiritual whirlpool. Just silence so fraught she could hear her blood rushing. Her heart pounding. The shallow, labored pants escaping Crane's lips. They stood immobile, vision darting around for anything abnormal, but everything was in order.

Maybe she butchered the spell too much? She moved to read it again.

Everything went black.

The dwindling, acoustic drone from the dying generator filled the room. It felt as if life suspended. Trapped in that very moment where she couldn't even dare to move. Or think. Or breathe. The machine let out its last dying sputter. The room held in silence, the earth at a standstill.

"Crane?" she half-whispered. Her voice, despite her effort, quivered.

"I'm here." He sounded faint.

A groan pierced the hush. A noise akin to nails on a chalk board. The twine slid against metal in a murmur.

A roar drowned the entire room.

She jumped and knocked her back against something hard. Glass smashed to the floor. Liquid sloshed against the ground.

His shrill screech was discordant. Brimming with agony and choked in sobbing, gurgling. The table squealed and skid with his hectic movements. The wheels sprang against the ground. His skin slapped the table.

He was in _pain._

That meant he felt his hollow insides. His tapered skin.

Police training didn't prepare her for this. Life didn't prepare her for this.

His bawl melded into a thunder. The lights flickered on in time to see Crane propelled against the door with a sickening crack. Bulbs whined and flickered sporadically; a disorienting haze of black and white. A jarring buzz from the generator, alternating from clicks to harsh whirring. Her vision swam.

A bulb exploded above her head. Glass rained down.

She dove to the floor, crawling towards the door Crane propped against. Blood gushed from his nose, eyes glassy and vacant. She grabbed his arm and shook him.

No response.

Another light blasted.

"_Crane_!" she grasped his shoulders tightly. "C'mon, Crane—_wake up_!"

Nothing. Fucking _nothing_.

The body arched towards the sky, the examining table rattling as it fought the restraints. His fingers curled. Ropes dug into its skin. Exposed ribs jutted out.

The book she'd abandoned slid across the floor, driven by an invisible force. It threw itself into the sigil written in blood, jerking athwart the tile.

The body lockers began jiggling and thumping. Fists slammed into the metal boxes. Feet kicking. Muffled screams. She squeezed her eyes shut and pushed herself into Crane's fleeting warmth.

Then everything stopped.

Sluggishly, she opened her eyes. The left one first, then right. She shifted her head from the position buried in his shoulder. Unfurled her fingers from his coat lapels. After all the unholy clamor, the silence deafening. She leaned against the door, clutching the handles for support.

Abbie inched towards the body, face twisted with anxiety. There was a widened canal that was once his ears. Blood seeped from it, pooling around the table. Unable to stare anymore, she wobbled to the other side of the autopsy bed where the spell book lay.

Horror suffused the very fiber of her being.

There, scrawled on the floor in blood, was **NO.**


	5. Moribund

**A/N: *Edited: 9/26/15**

* * *

_**solstice**_

_moribund_

* * *

**_i._**

_He ran his fingers across the smooth expanse of the marble counter. His breathing was shallow and light as he watched the unremarkable, quotidian scene play out before him. The man, whose body was actually still fastened to a cold table, stood before the island, slicing vegetables onto a board with master precision. A woman, who Crane assumed was his wife, sat at the table, all too immersed in a lackluster news article published several weeks before. None of their tasks required full attention, yet a hush hung dense._

_Having once been in a sham marriage, it didn't take him long to notice the tautness between the two._

_He swept the kitchen with his eyes, soaking the details of the unfamiliar home. Old, crude drawings pinned to the refrigerator, several framed honor roll certificates hung against the wall like a gallery. Even more trophies stood side by side, some for academics, although more for athletics, all dating too late for it to belong to either adult in the room._

_The man sliced a tomato in half. The woman flipped a page._

_Although he was currently in a metaphysical incongruity, ensnared somewhere between a memory and mental time travel, and the couple couldn't see him, he felt he was intruding. Alas, he had a purpose for being here; one that did not include standing idly, teeming with agitation or rapping his knuckles against the surface._

_Crane had the faintest idea of how time flowed in this realm, seeing he'd only been in this state once, and even then it was purely incidental, but he sensed he was close. The entire house had an ominous atmosphere, portents lurking in every shadowy corner. The sensation was akin to the calm before a storm laid siege to land._

_He just had to wait for the first crack of lightning._

_Until then, he'd utilize this time; taking in whatever information this home had to offer. Coat flapping like a wool shadow, he moved from the tense dining room. He skittered around the home, long fingers touching and exploring everything with rapt attention. He slipped in and out of the rooms like a phantom, unseen, unheard, unfelt._

_His scouring was mostly fruitless, gathering nothing helpful pertaining to the Lycans, but finding enough material for him to piece together the tension between the couple._

_They, like many others, had their son reaped for his sins._

_He let out a stuttering sigh, turning to exit the cramped, mismatched room. When the door swung open, he was faced with the dead of night. Darkness stained house like ink. With the ominous atmosphere amplified, the walls and floor seemingly buzzed, like static on a television, with ghastly anticipation. His emotions reciprocated, senses swinging into overdrive and on full alert as he waded into the opaque living room, a livewire as he stood._

_Headlights flooded the area in two bright beacons as a car sputtered to a stop outside the house. Twin slams sounded moments later, shortly followed by livid, thunderous arguing. The door went flying as the pair carried their bout into the house. The man blindly reached over and palmed the wall for a switch, nose flared and face ruddy. His wife stormed past him, out of the foyer and into the heart of the living room. The light snapped on, eliminating the darkness, but he felt it ingrained in his bones and every faint breath._

_"Shit - Mary, get back here now!"_

_She swiveled on her heel._

_"No, no! I'm not getting into this with you anymore; I'm done! I'm sick of it!" She made another feeble attempt to retreat up the swirling staircase. Crane, forgetting his wraithlike state, stepped out of her way._

_"You're sick of it? Mary, I'm sick of this." He gestured wildly between the two. Mary scrunched her nose, lips drawn back in the beginning of a snarl. Wildness danced in her eyes, disconsolation a step behind._

_"John - "_

_"Don't 'John' me, Mary; you know its fucking true." John threw his hands up, fisting his hair as if to yank it out in handfuls. "I'm done pretending, okay? I-I'm done putting on this show for you so we can act like we're this happy little family. I can't do it! I can't fucking do it anymore, Mary, I'm done."_

_"Goddamn it John, I'm trying!"_

_"Trying for what?! He's dead - Kaeden is fucking dead," his loud voice crumbled and cracked. His face twisted with warring emotions - remorse, resentment, woe - all warped together in spiteful words he would never have the option to take back. Mary's face glistened with tears. Her makeup stained her cheeks in black streaks._

_"You don't know that." If not for his keen hearing, he wouldn't have understood her warbled, wounded whisper._

_"You don't know that" she repeated, as if repetition would somehow form truth._

_"Nobody has been found, Mary." He took a step forward, not menacing, but for emphasis. His glassy eyes bored into hers. "Not Martha's kid, not Fredrick's kid, not ours."_

_Mary rushed forward and - smack! - John's head snapped sideways, an angry red mark against already flushed skin. Without so much as a backwards glance, she snatched the keys and flew from the house._

_Silence returned._

_John cradled his head, tears slipping down his wrists and hooked nose. Low whines sounded through labored pants and snivels. He wiped his hand over his face, using the other to snatch the framed photo on a counter. He stared at it, lips twitching._

_A moment later, it went flying into the wall._

_Crane flinched._

_He leaned against the arch leading into the kitchen, mind churning while John laid havoc to the living room, smashing every picture and glass he could get his hands on._

_Throughout his prolonged existence, he's never felt so hapless. His father wasn't here to guide him; the fall of Parliament left him severely under-resourced; his pack was dead and the one man who survived wanted to see his demise. The jigsaw he frantically tried to piece together only seemed to expand each passing day._

_Thirty years of cowardice, and now every charge he ran away from had increased by a tenfold._

_The clatter came to an end. Crane stole a glance at John, tracing his movement as he rummaged through his pockets. He pulled out an empty box of cigarettes and swore, exiting the door in a frenzied haste._

_The buzzing increased and he felt as if everything blurred together; as if everything was one continuous sequence rather than separate moments. He followed John, trotting until he caught up to him in the driveway._

_The night was warm, the moon big and sky uncharacteristically clear. It was almost scenic._

_Crane strode next to John, gaping at him. Not in a million lifetimes would he ever get used to this state. Watching, or rather experiencing, the past go by while not actively being a part of it, completely impotent to change it no matter how much he willed against it. Although John appeared to be a brash man, he didn't deserve to have his body hollowed out on a simple run for smokes._

_They bent, turned and curved around several streets. Crane kept his eyes trained on John the whole while, occasionally flicking away whenever a bush rustled too noisily or an owl hooted. Otherwise, the journey was distressingly still and uneventful. He, however, wasn't easily fooled._

_They traveled to a barren street when an acrid scent filled his nostrils. He halted, already buzzing senses becoming mind-numbingly feverish. The familiar spark in his chest kindled. His throat tightened. He flexed his fingers._

_The smell of rot, he thought, the fragrance of death. His canines pinched the inside of his lip._

_John suddenly stopped. His body was rigid, his shoulders trembling. Crane followed his gaze to the end of the road. There, huddled underneath a blinking streetlight, was a boy; lanky with muddy hair, nicks and welts as if he'd ran through the forest bare. His eyes were sunken and encircled by dark rings, blood smeared and crusted around his nose._

_John's bottom lip quivered._

_"Kaeden?"_

_The boy sank his nails into his crossed arms. The light flickered again._

_"D-dad," he whimpered. "I'm scared."_

_He looked human, so vulnerable and frail, but Crane smelled that nauseating odor rolling off him in waves. He saw those diluted pupils and the bottomless void within. What was once this man's son was now an abomination; an insult to God or whichever capricious deity which reigned._

_Kaeden took a tentative step back, nearly stumbling. He took another, then one more before he spun around and took off as if hellhounds were breathing fire onto his pink heels. John, unwittingly, raced after him through the undergrowth, past the haze of houses and straight into a vast field. His winded shouts persisted into the high grass; the same area where investigators would soon find his empty carcass._

_Crane slowed to a stop, gaping at the unfamiliar structure in the center of the vast prairie. His eyebrows drew together._

_A brooding, timeworn church stood incongruent with the surrounding modern neighborhoods. It had a moldering and gnarled form as if characterized by the equally grim ambience that settled in the field. The earth around was sparse with dirt and gravel, a contrast to the flourished grass. Fractured headstones jutted like spines from the ground. It was wide and towering, its style resembling a rococo-era cathedral._

_His attention flicked back to John who hurtled up the church steps in hurried wild leaps. Crane swore and continued his pursuit, for once thanking his Lycanthrope blood when he sailed across the field in record time._

_However, he was moments too late._

_John's shirttail slipped between the doors a split second before they slammed closed with force that rattled the floor. Crane yanked the rusting handle and, to his utter chagrin, it tore right off the door. Frustrated, he threw it aside, his brain already forming another approach. He struck the door repeatedly, yet yielded no results. The next option was to shoulder it open, though foreseeably, it remained stagnant. Despite his rudimentary knowledge of this place, he knew this wasn't a fault of his physical state, or lack thereof. The dismantled handle was proof of this._

_Somebody knew he would be here; they were making sure that he couldn't enter._

_He ran his hands along the face of the structure for something, anything, which could get him in. His eyes darted across each grayed stone for a sigil but they were bare. He whirled on his heel, examining the old columns on either side of the stairs. There, in nigh microscopic detail, was a mindboggling mass of seals. Had it been a different situation, he would've stopped to admire the handiwork of an evidently adroit warlock._

_He kneeled before it. Maybe there was a sliver of a chance that the seals engraved in the marble would be similar to the ones on every wall, tile and pillar in his manor though within a few brief seconds of examination, he realized they were far beyond his extensive knowledge of witchcraft, made for the sole purpose of blocking empaths._

_A muffled roar sounded from inside. He could hear metal grinding against flesh, against bone._

_The attenuated veil separating wolf from man became thinner. Rage burned hot in his throat; a fire scalding anything the flames could lick. The beast he spent nearly every waking hour trying to conceal capitalized on his ire; rending that last tether to humanity with such rapidity Crane couldn't comprehend it. He didn't see claws tearing through the skin of his fingers. Didn't feel his bones fracturing and reconstructing in what would ordinarily be an unbearable process. He didn't even heed the heap of skin, blood and muscle that had once covered him, had once been him, but now birthed a beast born from loss and detriment._

_And quite frankly, he didn't care. He couldn't care. All he knew was wrath; all he saw was red._

_With blinding speed, he leapt at the column, steel-like teeth enclosing on an entire half of it. His jaw ground together and, seconds later, he felt a fissure - a hair that traveled all the way from the base to the very top._

_Immediately afterward came darkness._

**_ii._**

Awakening was a trying toil. His limbs felt cumbersome, his throat sore and parched. Just breathing, as shallow and light as it was, exerted what little energy he could muster. Behind his lids, he could "see" the blaring overhead lights; smell the dank, coppery stench of blood, sweat and rot. Sometime later - moments? Minutes? Hours? - his consciousness clawed through the haze of darkness. Control returned to his battered limbs through tiny shocks in the tips of his fingers.

Crane's eyes fluttered open, vision blurry. He blinked, willing the dark spots to fade from his peripheral.

The morgue was chaotic, to say the very least. File cabinets were thrown open, lights busted with wires dangling precariously from the ceiling, glass strewn about. Every wall was spattered in some varying amount of red. He carefully shifted his head in search of the petite lieutenant. It didn't take long to find her small frame curled into a nearby corner, face buried into her arms.

For a second he thought she was dead, but he could hear the steady, rhythmic pulse upon concentration.

A huff of air escaped his nose.

Unfortunately, that didn't conclude his worries. Crane moved to stand up, twinge in his spine be damned. He flattened his sweaty palm against the door for support. The world swam; the colors melded together until all resembled an abstract oil painting, but he persevered. Nightshade was still heavy in his system, he could only hope he would naturally detox instead of having to purge, and all his movements were sluggish but he found himself standing upright.

He toddled to the sink and quickly rinsed his face. Dried blood returned to life in rivulets as he washed around his nostrils. The excess caked within his beard and hair, blunt fingernails had to be saved for home.

The exposed body - John, he had to remind himself - still lay on the table. The ropes tied around his wrists and ankles left angry marks across pallid skin. His eyes were blown open, jaw slack and crooked. Slop pooled around either ear, or what was left of them, now. Crane crinkled his nose and glanced elsewhere; liquefied gray matter wasn't the most remarkable sight.

Guilt struck him. After his brief glimpse into John's life, it became trying to look at the mess he made of the man's body. Snatching his soul from the afterlife and thrusting it back into his dissected, emptied vessel without second thought? It was inhumane.

He squeezed his eyes shut. God, where had his mortality gone? Had this been the Crane from two centuries ago - the general, the husband, the human - this would never have been an option. He would have heeded flaws in this plan; had at least some kind of moral confliction. But the fusion between animal and man left him in an ambiguous ethical limbo.

The sound of rustling caught his attention. That, along with bones popping and a tired, weary moan. He tossed the paper towel into the trash bin, focusing on Abigail's movements across the room.

She cracked her lids, straightaway glancing at the door he was propped against minutes before. She jolted upright, shoulders tense. What seemed like an eternity later, their eyes met; woeful blue against guarded brown.

A few beats of apprehensive silence passed between the two.

"I thought you were dead." She rasped bluntly. He would always appreciate her straightforwardness, a needed opposite to his flowery, dawdling vernacular.

He clasped his hands together, shrugging nonchalantly.

"It takes far more than that to slay a Lycanthrope."

He wouldn't tell her that he was on the cusp of death; couldn't burden her with these details.

Wine colored streaks on the floor caught his attention next. In wide, shoddy penmanship, 'NO' was written on the floor. The cursed spell book rested at the top of the 'o', blood discoloring its sides.

"The book did that," she explained, stepping over the broken glass to stand by his side. Her lips drew into a thin line, hands resting on her hips. "Whichever son of a bitch is running this obviously doesn't want us figuring it out."

Memories of the church's sigils resurfaced. His fingers twitched at his sides.

As if God was out to smite him for his wrongdoings, footsteps, metrical, hard clicks, sounded from outside the room. Abigail stood stiffly, heart beating in the hollow of her throat. Beyond the hallway was a chorus of voices; two feminine and one masculine.

They glanced at each other. The mess, the blood, the body; how were they supposed to restore the morgue and a few measly seconds? Like their minds were linked on a single notion, both began to move.

The clicking stopped at the entrance. Air from the hallway rushed in.

A pair of keys dropped.

"What the fuck is going on here?" The gangly old man took a step forward, then a fearful one back. "Wha-what the hell are - why is - "

He looked ready to scream.

Unable to let that happen, Crane leapt forward and pressed his palm flat against his forehead. The man's eyes rolled back, his knees buckling right after. Crane held him before he toppled, bracing him against the wall. His sight grew spots again, his need for rest making itself known, but he paid them no mind, sweeping the old book from the ground.

"Did you just knock him out?" she asked, voice between a hiss and a whisper.

"A grands maux, grands remèdes," he replied hurriedly. She tilted her head at him. "Desperate times, Miss Mills."

Crane gathered the equipment into the crook of his arm and slid them into the satchel. He paused, attuned to the others. They remained in the lobby of the morgue. Though still, he knew time was dear and scant. "We need to leave."

"With the body just laying here and our fingerprints all over everything?"

"Unfortunately, we're not permitted enough time for clean up; there are others inside this building," He grabbed the pall and bundled the spell book with it. "And he'll only stay asleep for so long."

She snapped her mouth shut, opening it once more before closing it again. She patted his chest and he handed the satchel over.

"Let's go."

**_iii._**

Muted light flittered through the stained-glass windows, painting an array of fragmented colors against the walls and rosewood shelves. A layer of dust coated the entire archive, it was one of the many places he prohibited the cleaning services to touch, and the pungent scent of old parchments and wax encased the two. Since most of the electrical wiring weaved around the home-library, he resorted to lighting candles. It wasn't a safe practice, considering they were surrounded by dry paper and wood, but it had worked in the past, which was good enough for Crane.

That and Abigail looked absolutely ethereal in the candle glow.

It was two hours after their narrow escape from the morgue. The drive to his manor took a mere half hour. The excess time Crane spent fading in and out of consciousness on a sofa with the leftenant at his side. While he was far from his regular health, now he was able to stand, walk and speak comprehensible words.

Abigail, still restive from their earlier endeavor, wiped her sweaty palms against her jeans. She once again took her bottom lip between her teeth, and Crane, once again, resisted the urge to move it with his own.

"So, uh, what happened back there?" she queried, finally taking a seat at the table. She slid the stack of books aside, all on witchcraft, just in case he somehow missed the sigils before, and entwined her fingers. "I personally don't know shit about necromancy and stuff like that, but I'm pretty sure you getting rag-dolled across the room wasn't part of the plan."

Crane gently rolled a scroll and tied it with its respective ribbon. "It wasn't. There was a seal placed on his consciousness that prevented me from venturing further."

There was a beat of apprehensive silence.

"What did you see?" Her tone was quiet and restful; foreknowing that whatever he witnessed was unsettling.

"Everything and nothing," he began cryptically. "Most of the time was spent observing the mundane, ordinary scene of human life, which isn't nearly as thrilling as it sounds." She cracked a smile at his jest, but the lightness didn't reach her eyes. "It'd been uneventful until night fell. John set out for a smoke run and was lured by his son, who apparently was captured and turned into a lycan afore."

"He was lured by a hairy behemoth on two legs?"

"Oddly enough, the boy was humanoid. This trait must be new to this generation of babe lycans considering it's of the various reasons they spurn werewolves." He continued. "John chased his son, and he led him straight into a church or base of some sort."

Crane palmed the table for a pen and paper. Once in hand, he drew a faint sketch of the cathedral. He wasn't artistic, but his eidetic memory granted him accuracy with his work. Abigail leaned closer to observe. Her shoulder brushed his; he nearly dropped his pen.

"That church wasn't there at the crime scene," she pitched in, tracing her fingertips along the lines. "There was nothing at the lot then, the entire place seemed dead. Shit, even the houses around it were vacant." She glanced at the paper, then him. "What's in it?"

"I never made it that far. The seals engraved into the columns prevented me from going any further," he sighed. "However, whatever lies inside of this church must be fundamental; that I know with solidity. There are far too many fortifications and safeguards in place for this to be trivial. Secrets are hidden within these walls; surely an explanation for the stolen limbs and why lycans are rebuilding their forces with human children." Crane inhaled slowly, heart speeding at the possibilities this church held inside. "They're all linked. I don't know how, but coincidences of this degree just don't happen."

"All we need to do is get inside and then we truly know what we're up against?"

"I hope so," he breathed airily. "After all, witches, demons and lycans don't band together on ordinary occasions. Their egos are far too inflated for proper fellowship."

"Unless someone is offering them something they really want. Something big presumably, if they hate each other that much." Crane's silence indicated his interest. "I mean, it's not unheard of. The 'enemy of my enemy is my friend' mentality has done wonders to the Mafia. Huge drug dynasties putting aside their differences to take out another has happened before. The same could be going on right now, too." She paused. "But instead of people blasting another with machine guns, we have entire races of horrors kidnapping kids and eating their parents."

Crane mulled over her words, his brows furrowed in concentration. Now that he gave the debacle an once-over in his head, her proposal made sense. Some entity had to be obscured behind a curtain, pulling the strings on the ploy like a marionette. Lycans were the dimwitted predecessors to werewolves who pulled a short stick in Darwinism, so it couldn't be them. Witches and demons were cunning and intellectual, but their society revolved, almost solely, around self-gratification and expediency; grueling labor and organization wasn't an attribute either possessed.

That left an outside force to run the operation. After Parliament crumbled, there was a power vacuum in its wake, one that he was meant to fill. When he fled from the position, he presumed no one else was adequate for it, thus the anarchy, warring empires and the decimated population. However, as he realized now, his impression was fallacious. Apparently, someone had taken the role, and they were ruling with an iron fist; the land's most abhorrent entities at their command.

Something neither he nor Parliament could've ever hoped to achieve.

" - rane, hey." Abigail waved her hand in front of his face. He reeled in his seat, blinking a few times. "You blanked out on me for a couple minutes."

"My deepest apologies, Miss Mills," he muttered, trying his damnedest to overcome a sudden bout of vertigo.

"How are you able to do all of - " she pantomimed, waving her arms in a wide circle. " - this?" He raised an eyebrow at her. "I mean the mind-walking and knocking guys out by touching them - it just doesn't make sense for a werewolf. From the stuff I've read, those aren't the abilities you guys come with. The shapeshifting, claws and fur is more up your alley than mindreading."

Crane tilted his head at her. "Mindreading?"

"Yeah - mindreading. Last night, at the morgue. You knew my questions before I even asked."

She wrung her hands. He stretched his fingers. Miss Mills licked her lips in apprehension, running her fingertips across the rough parchment of the blasphemous book. The lights blinked.

_"Anyone can do spells," he reassured, sensing her hesitation underneath the semblance of indifference. "Although without aid from a witch, there are quite literally hundreds of ways this entire plan can fall apart..."_

"You noticed?"

"I'm a cop; it's my job to notice things." She then looked at him expectantly.

"I was born an empath, which, in its greenest form, is the ability to read emotions." Abigail reclined in her chair and folded her hands on her lap, the urgency of their previous conversation dissipated. "The ability in itself is indefinite and, for a period of time in the past, I wanted to map out all of its capabilities though, as you can see, that time no longer allows these indulgences. Clairvoyance and telepathy are just on the surface of empathy, I've learned. I'm capable of greater things. What you witnessed yesterday was one of them." He grinned lightly. "I haven't labeled it yet but 'mind-walking,' as you put it, seems sufficient."

Abigail gawped at him. "That's…"

"Disturbing? Frightening?"

"I was gonna say impressive, but yeah - there's definitely that, too."

Crane gnawed the inside of his cheek. While he was pleased to share this part of him, the part he could only tell Abraham, Parliament and his father for the sake of confidentiality, with Miss Mills, her reaction was worrying. The last thing they needed was yet another rift. Their odd partnership, seeing it was too informal to call it a pact and eccentric for "friendship", was budding, and having her become more emotionally withdrawn would stub it. There was the prospect he was being melodramatic, but this connection was something he valued too much to let his inattention destroy.

Abigail stood up, stretching her limber arms high above her head. She let out a yawn before rubbing her eyes.

"I'm gonna' head over to the station and try to do some damage control," she announced, jamming her keys into her jacket's pocket. "So I guess this is goodbye for now."

Crane nodded at her. He didn't know how she planned on doing that but he trusted her capability to handle herself.

"Godspeed, Miss Mills."

Soon after Abigail left, he went straight to bed. He hadn't even bothered to hang his military coat, instead tossing it onto the floor with his boots. If it'd been any other day, he'd have taken the time to fold and hang his clothes but alas it wasn't and he was drained. His exhaustion coupled with nightshade sent him off before his head even hit the pillow, blacking out while climbing atop of plush sheets.

He slept for five days straight.

**_iv._**

His first morning back from the brink was gray. Every color within the boundaries of the hex seemed muted and bleak, as if to match his inert state. Thunder rumbled in the sky, causing the windows to tremble in intervals. However, the land remained dry and the ethers didn't split with bolts of lightning. The sun hadn't yet dared to peek over the horizon, though his day had already begun.

He tenderly rolled onto his back, the open wounds already stitched together during his slumber, and stared at the ornately painted ceiling waiting for the faintness to subside. Soon after, he stood up and sauntered into his wide, ivory bathroom.

He stripped down until his clothes were a dark heap at his feet, observing the disconcerting reflection from the mirror. His veins ran black across his abdomen, waning into its normal color once they reached the juncture between his upper-arm and forearm. Juxtaposed to clammy, ashen skin, they resembled the gnarled limbs of a deadwood tree. Violet discoloration settled underneath his eyes, nose, neck and fingertips, the same color as a fully bloomed belladonna.

All a cruel reminder that he was on the brink of death days before.

With unsteady hands, his slid his fingertips across the marks, mended long ago, but now angry and puffy from the toxin, marring his stomach. Most were stab and gun wounds from when he served as a general in Washington's army. The smaller nicks and scratches belonged to a time dating even further than that; his incipient years spent joined at the hip with Abraham, bounding through the woodlands and making a general nuisance of themselves. It'd earned them a fair share of cuts and bruises; the welts stuck around since they preluded his turning.

Then there was, of course, the mutilation that got him where he was now. The genesis of his unwholesome self-loathing and disgust. It was a long scar, distending from his upper ribs, through his breast plate, and ended below his collarbone. Abraham had one also, although his was more of a series of abrasions across his throat.

Finally, torrid and ruddy against his skin, were the branded words _metere quod seminas -_ reap what you sow. It was the last thing the witchdoctor uttered to him before he went under, all consciences and conscious thoughts reduced to the uncomplicated instincts of a common wolf.

Crane slipped into the shower and made quick work of scrubbing away the crusted blood and dried sweat. Soon after, he brushed his teeth and dressed in his usual colonial garb, punctuating his morning routine with a tight half-ponytail. He doubted he'd end up fighting today, nevertheless, he tucked a short stiletto inside his coat; toting the Methuselah on his back would draw unwanted attention.

The drive to John's hometown was silent and, oddly so, unreflective. Despite the seals of damnation breaking before his eyes, his mind was clear, contrast to the riotous emotions and thoughts shadowing him since he's reawakened.

Crane wasn't going to argue with that.

The sky became gradually brighter with each mile he drove. The dense clouds and ominous thunder guarding Phillipstown turned in favor to thin, stringy whips and the first rays of sunshine. If he was optimistic, he could take this as a sign of fortune, however his father raised him to be a realist.

It took twenty minutes after reaching the sleepy town to locate the lot where John's body could be found. Now that urgency was eliminated from the atmosphere, taking in his surroundings was an easier task.

As Abigail stated before, the church was nonexistent. The honey-tipped high grass appeared to have swallowed the building whole leaving no flattened straws behind to indicate anything massive once weighed on it. The wind blew liberally, yet all the traces of entities remained indiscernible. He felt like a loon milling around in the grass searching for something illusory. Everything eluded normality.

However Crane was not one to be fooled.

Adding on to the leftenant's observation of the vacant houses, he noticed the entire area was listless in general. No bird soared in the sky; no insect burrowed itself into the ground or crept up the thin stalks of grass. Aside from the blustering, it was utterly still.

A glint shone in his peripheral catching his eye several yards ahead. He waded through the field with wide marches, bending down and sweeping aside the vegetation to locate the source. Immediately, his eyes zeroed in on the desired object.

His brows formed deep creases as he licked his lips, throat suddenly arid.

It was the handle he tore off the church. The rusted metal was embedded in dirt, appearing like it's been there for weeks.

Crane reached out for it but hesitated mere inches away, the fear of being thrown into a singularity bubbling in his chest. Before now, he was sure that mind-walking lacked the ability to tamper with anything corporeal, for he was mentally roving through memories rather than being in a physical state. However, as he rubbed his thumb mindlessly across the bright rust, the handle proved otherwise.

He shut his eyes in a mixture of frustration and deliberation. Hexes were perfectly capable of fortifying, hiding, destroying and rebuilding entire acres of land but removing something straight from existence? Being able to jump objects in and out of the plane of reality? That was impossible; at least he hoped.

Crane spent another two hours scouring the area for any other clues. Aside from the handle shoved into his coat pocket, it was vain.

His patience thinned from this journey; nothing was elucidated. Instead, the convoluted scheme formed more strands that led nowhere. His intuition assured him they linked anywise, but the trails were just as impalpable as the cathedral. Every tangible lead seeped through the cracks of his fingers.

It was driving him fucking mad.

He sighed and ran his hand through fallow locks. He didn't have a concomitant reason to stay in the dead-end town but he couldn't bring himself to resign to the manor yet. Instead, he opted to walk around the dormant city listening to the leaves skitter across the concrete to calm his nerves.

A handful of stores opened at this time, most of them being small, family-owned restaurants. He passed several on his aimless stroll down the empty roads, a swell of scents flooding his nose; batter, sugar, meat and grease.

His pace slowed down. He narrowed his eyes.

No, no. There was something else in the air.

He breathed deeply, inhaling each aroma with attentiveness. Instead of a simple scent, "meat" became a week-old, processed beef with a mild case of freezer burn. He sorted through the concoction of smells with ease, and then…

There it was again - _rot_.

Crane opened his eyes, senses honing at the prospect of danger. The scent was weak, but it wasn't old; just muted from the barrage of more potent odors surrounding it. He trained his nose on the single strain and followed it diligently, long legs sailing across the sidewalk. Minutes later, he located the source.

It was a shabby restaurant huddled in the corner of an empty street; unconventional for a business but, considering he detected rot here, the secretive location must have been intentional. In crooked, neon letters, "DINER" was plastered against the entrance. Aside from three cars, the parking lot was almost as barren as the rest of the town.

Perhaps he should've formed a plan before barging right into the diner but impulse was one of his damning traits. It was the same trait that led him to the witchdoctor. The same one that made him expose Lycanthropy to Abigail the first chance he could.

And now, it was whim that had him standing in the middle of the tacky eatery, glancing wildly around for peril when there was none to be seen.

The man wiping down a table tucked away his rag and pulled out a notebook and pencil from his apron. His shiny, bald head gleamed as he passed a series of lights. He stopped in front of Crane, a bright smile wrinkling his face.

"You must be one of those early risers, huh? We usually don't get any customers," he glanced at his wristwatch, "seven minutes after opening but hey - fine by me!" He beamed again, "Alright, bud; I'll get'cha seated if you'll follow me."

It took Crane a second to gather his wits, but he soon was a step behind the chubby, sociable waiter. The man waved his hand to a table next to the bar. Crane took a seat, back ramrod straight while he twiddled his fingers.

The waiter handed him a menu but he left it untouched.

"You have something in mind for breakfast already?" he started again, all too enjoyed to hold a one-sided conversation. "'Cause we have this steak, eggs and pancake special going on for a couple days and it's delicious! I'm a meaty kind of guy, so I love - "

"That seems fine," Crane interrupted before the waiter could get carried away. Eating wasn't his intention for coming here but, if it granted him more time to observe the area without looking suspicious, he'd gladly partake.

"Anything to drink?"

"Water will do."

A little time after, the waiter returned with a big plate of food and set it on the table. The waiter, Jim as he now adorned his nametag, nodded at him before ambling away.

Crane grasped the fork and poked his breakfast dispassionately. There was nothing wrong with the dish, actually, everything piled onto it looked delectable, but Crane lost his appetite for human food long ago.

His wolf had other ideas for a meal.

Instead of steak, pancakes and eggs, he yearned for flesh; human flesh ideally, but demon meat was the lackluster successor he settled for. Thought not the best provisions for werewolves, if he chose to sufficiently sedate his hunger properly it meant some hapless man would be dead or someone's tombstone would be knocked aside in a ravenous pursuit for decaying viscera.

His entire life as wolf-man consisted of antipathy for the craving - near lusting - after the wasted corpses of the once living but, through countless years of the routine repeating itself over and over, he'd become desensitized to his own disgust with it. It wasn't until Abigail caught a glimpse into his deplorable lifestyle did the detachment fade into pinpricks coating his arms and neck in hot shame. If their fragile connection dared to bloom into something more, he couldn't continue this.

For the longest, the alternative was lunar essence; a vial with the harnessed extract of the moon. Its sole purpose was to subdue the hellish counterpart long enough for human consciousness to reign. Unfortunately, once Parliament collapsed, the Nix who once harvested it were slaughtered first, leaving Lycanthropes scrambling for any means to feel remotely human.

He dropped the fork, staring out the window. A woman, presumably an employee, went across the rows of tables, shutting the blinds.

In the end, that's what it all narrowed down to - being human. But lunar essence was never quite able to capture the humanity part appropriately. Once the essence coursed through their system, they became a glutton for human needs - real food, affection, vanity, sex. Senses that were once muffled became debauched and amplified and everything seemed like an overdramatic Shakespearean tragedy. He couldn't count, nor did he want to actually, how many galas hosted at the manor ended with an inebriated brawl or a drunken tryst between aristocrats.

With a defeated sigh, he took a sip of his water. The woman who shut the blinds earlier was replaced with a burly man. He flipped the neon sign from "open" to "closed".

It was a bit too early for that.

Soon, the waiter returned although this time Jim was nowhere to be seen. Instead, a gangling and gaunt man with stringy, white hair stood before him. He flashed a grin, staring at Crane's untouched plate. Rather than collecting the dish and handing him a bill as decorum, he scooted into the wooden chair across from him.

"Can't say I blame you; I'm not much of a stake guy either."

He gave Crane an empty gaze. His pun didn't fall upon deaf ears.

The metallic click of the door locking sounded.

He breathed in the enfeebling odor of ash.

Nosferatu.

Crane swallowed thickly, fire coursing through his veins. His chest constricted. Heat scorched his throat. All telltale signs his wolf was feigning for an unwarranted debut.

It's been harder to control it these days.

He sipped his water, hoping it would extinguish the burn in his body. Belladonna was still in his blood; the last thing he needed was an impromptu transition from man to wolf.

He downed the rest of his drink and clinked his glass.

"I suppose you're sitting next to me for a reason," Crane said monotonously, though malice was threaded in his words. He paused, "Judging by that silver knife tucked away in your trousers, I can only imagine your intentions are less than amenable."

The man, Marcus as his nametag said, let out a low titter, digging into his pants. He pulled out a jagged blade and smacked it down on the table. A whetted dirk shone in the light engraved with Lycanthrope impairing sigils and drenched in wolf's bane, a close replacement to nightshade when dealing with toxicity.

If that thing even grazed his skin, he was dead.

"So you are as smart as they say," Marcus sniggered. "Guess all those years of fucking around with innocent people can do that, huh?" He waved his hands around his head for emphasis.

"If you have a point, get to it." His dilated pupils met pinpoints. "Quickly."

Marcus tipped his head at him, snickering once again, but his eyes were hollow and mirthless.

"For a man who's got a bounty on his head, you're sure as shit a cocky fucker."

Crane squinted at him, making the mistake of showing emotion. Marcus's grin, if even possible, got wider, showing both sets of white teeth.

"You didn't know this? Fuck, you must be a dense motherfucker!" He leaned in close, "Every entity in the goddamn States wants your head on a fuckin' pole."

Like a flash of lightning, Crane seized Marcus, snatched him out the seat and slammed him up against the bar. One hand wrapped firmly around his throat. The other held the stiletto once tucked away in his coat against his hammering heart.

A bar stool rattled and rolled on the floor.

"Who sent out the bounty?" When all he did was struggle, Crane reinforced his grip pressing his thumb into his trachea until he felt it give. Marcus's neck twisted against the edge of the bar counter, maw wide in feeble attempts to suck in air. "_Who_, damn it?"

Marcus's eyes flicked black. His teeth narrowed into spines.

"F-fuck…y-_y-ou_!" he gasped, thrashing and bucking.

The elder nosferatu threw his weight, knocking Crane off balance for a split second but that was all he needed. In a heartbeat, the dirk was back in his hand, gripped between the rough, sweaty pads of his palms.

Crane steadied himself, breath shallow, as he glanced behind him. The woman who had shut the blinds stood blocking the door with her arms bracing either side, sclera murky and jagged teeth jutting out her mouth. Beside him, the situation was identical only this nosferatu was bulkier and his apron was already coated in red.

He was cornered on three sides; imprisoned in a trinity of blood-lusting, bellicose nosferatus with his only weapon being a plain, uncharmed stiletto. God knew if he shifted in such a destabilized state, he would turn berserker. So Crane held onto the thin knife like a lifeline, waiting and watching, stiff as he prayed vertigo wouldn't slow him enough to become a giant faucet for the soul-sucking leeches.

And then there was a knock at the door.

"We're closed!" the woman shouted breathlessly, her stance slackened. Crane peered behind him, curious which person had the absolute worst timing to arrive during a supernatural showdown.

He rubbed his fingers against the hilt of the sword. Blood rushed in his ears.

The person knocked again.

"I said we're _clos_ \- "

The heavy, wooden door caved in, crashing with a force that made the ground quaver beneath the soles of his boots. Drywall and woodchips plumed in the air.

Crane flinched and took a step back. Marcus flipped the blade in his hand.

From there, it was a blur.

Marcus didn't waste a second to invade the little space Crane had, now trapped between two pugnacious entities and an intruder whom he had to decipher as friend or foe. The dirk skittered a thread breadth away from Crane's neck, instead shearing flyaway hairs from his ponytail. The nosferatu had no intentions on playing mind games anymore; he was aiming for a hasty kill.

Marcus swiped high; Crane narrowly evaded with his throat intact. He was goddamned quick. Jab after jab, he attacked in a blinding succession that even Crane had a hard time following. He sidestepped another blow that landed too close for comfort, glass crunching underneath his feet.

He spared a glance behind him. Nothing but walls; no exit.

With an entity hell-bent on his expiry, his options slimmed solely to operating on defensive - dodging, ducking, backtracking. He was relying on his opponent's ineptitude and his reflexes to avoid a knife in his jugular.

But Ichabod Crane didn't do defensive.

Marcus shot out again; this time Crane was ready for him. There was a precious moment of vulnerability when the nosferatu's arms extended and he took it. Crane dipped low and rammed his shoulder into Marcus's ribcage, both barreling to the ground.

The dirk keened against the tiled floor. The stiletto clunked underneath the seat of the booth.

_Bloody hell._

Pain seared his jaw before he gathered his wits. He bowed over, iron soaking his tongue and lips. Fire and bile gathered in his throat. His vision hazed - but no, no! He couldn't turn now.

Marcus heaved himself on top, wrapping his cold fingers around Crane's throat just as Crane had done to him earlier. With his free hand, he struck again and again until a steady flow of blood sealed Crane's left eye shut.

"W-what?" Marcus rasped, struggling to breathe with two ribs puncturing his lung. "Ya' not gonna' wolf out?" He raised his swollen fist and, when it connected, Crane swore he felt his brain shift inside his skull. "Huh? Too f-fucking high and mighty?"

Even with a collapsed windpipe, he didn't know how to shut up.

The werewolf summoned all the strength into his arms, tearing them from underneath Marcus. He ground his claws into the nosferatu's forearms and slung his weight tossing the monster away from himself.

He sucked in a desperate lungful of air, keeping his one good eye trained on the bounty hunter's writhing form. Crane crawled to one of the several wooden stools toppled on the ground and reached out. His hand missed it the first try, his equilibrium and depth perception completely thrown, but the second time, he grabbed the leg and dragged it closer.

All it took was one quick snap, and he had a makeshift stake.

Without hesitation, he drove it a meagre millimeter away from Marcus's hammering heart; his life spared because the alpha needed answers. The nosferatu's wail was ear-piercing, all the lights inside the diner promptly blew out, but the beast inside soaked it in like life's greatest melody. The raining glass and buzzing wires were a fitting outro when Marcus finally blacked out.

Crane shouldn't have been standing, good God but everything burned, but it was in the nature of werewolves to turn agony and wrath into fuel.

The cloaked assailant battled off the other two entities without missing a beat, obviously well-trained and experienced. At one point, thirty years ago, he was nearly the same, although lighter on his feet with more fleeting steps.

Crane carefully bent over and swept the dirk up by the leather hilt.

The man reached into the shadows of his hood and pulled out a blade of his own, thrusting it into the side of his combatants neck. The meaty nosferatu fell like a bag of bricks.

The only one left was the woman, looking thoroughly conflicted whether she should fight or flee. Crane never gave her the option. Blood sprayed across his coat and hands, warm and sticky between the pads of his fingers, but damn it, he didn't care.

To say he was in the right state of mind was an outright lie. Between the exhaustion, belladonna and inner wolf trying to pull the strings on his body, he wasn't quite himself.

Just a little less generous than usual.

Crane slumped against the bar counter, too tired to even breathe; way too spent to turn as his shrouded aid unveiled himself.

"It's been such a long time since I've seen you fight."

He knew that voice.

Suddenly, he wasn't so tired.

He swirled around and gaped at the figure behind him, robed in a dark cloak with his old colonial attire underneath. His blonde hair was astray, skin still wan and his nose and forehead bled profusely, yet his eyes blazed with life.

"Abraham?" he croaked, his voice struggling to find itself after being choked within every inch of his life.

"Who else, if not I?"

The theatrical entrance, the parallel fighting style, he should've known. Would've known if his scent wasn't masked in obnoxious, human cologne. Crane looked away, letting the astonishment fade into primness not uncommon between the two ex-friends. He schooled his features into a cover of indifference.

"What're you doing here, seeing it's not to enact your revenge?"

"And how would you know that?" Abraham challenged, snatching a handful of napkins from the booths, dabbing his forehead and nose.

Crane resisted a smirk in this twinkling of levity.

"Because if you did, I would've already been dead."

He missed a beat.

"For someone who's once held the title of Alpha, you've sure as shit done a slipshod job of cleaning up the lycans."

Typical Abraham; deflect, ignore and change the conversation at the risk of sharing emotions. Either his masculinity had become frighteningly fragile or he was far from forgiving Crane for running away. Crane let air escape his lips, his abs shuddered with each lungful.

"It's a process," was his weak response.

"And it's taking far too long."

Crane closed his eyes, shoulders sagging.

"If you came solely to reprimand me then I bid you farewell."

"I came here to help you."

"Ah yes," he sang acerbically, "I've asked you nigh five months afore and now you've come to my rescue. It is most appreciated, Abraham." The belladonna worked its way into his throat. He coughed heavily into his arm, a ghastly mix of mucus and blood dredging up. Abraham blew air through his nose.

"If you'd prefer your mangy pelt skinned and laid before a warm fireplace in _his_ home then, by all means, continue to expose yourself to every entity within a hundred mile radius!"

Abraham was undoubtedly bitter about his census, how he traced Crane all the way back here, probably, which ultimately raised awareness he was back from the proverbial dead. It wasn't his brightest moment, but curiosity killed the cat.

They locked eyes.

"His?"

"The contractor - the man who apparently wants you dead the most."

Until now, Crane had that spot reserved for him.

"And how do you know of him?"

He shrugged. "I've spent twenty-eight years living amongst the vilest, filthiest creatures to ever meander this earth. I catch wind of things occasionally." He jerked his thumb towards the bodies. "This is only the beginning. They'll be coming in droves soon enough."

"And what does he offer?"

"Power, money, revenge," Abraham offered. Crane furrowed his brows as Abraham continued. "Who the hell knows what it all means now but, after Parliament fell, nearly everyone is desperate enough to seize any opportunity. Whoever he is, he must be serious about his claims to have nosferatus at his beck and call."

Considering nosferatus were the pretentious, egocentric ancestors to vampires, a race that's virtually extinct, if his census was accurate, that favored devotion "above all else", whoever ran this operation must have put forth tangible reasons for them to dedicate themselves to this cause.

Abigail was right, not that he much doubted her to begin with, but her insight was awestriking.

And slightly unnatural.

Abraham strode over to Marcus's limp body and slung him over his shoulder.

"And where mayhaps are you taking him?"

"Underground."

It was a simple, vague statement, but Abraham knew exactly where he spoke of. It was the vast chamber beneath the manor used for capturing and persecuting those who committed "treason."

His throat tightened. Crane threw a hand over his mouth, hobbling over the unconscious bodies in a beeline to the bathroom.

He arched over the toilet, retching and dry heaving with violent tremors. His clammy palms, pressed against the sides of the stall for support, nearly slipped with all the sweat he produced. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, glowering at the bloody mess in the bowl of the toilet.

So much for detoxing.

He went over the sink and rinsed his mouth and hands, shaking off the water. He eyed his condition in the mirror, going over the black veins and humid skin.

Then he saw it.

He turned around, slanting his eyes at the sight. There, shoved into the stall, was somebody. Their foot twisted awkwardly and poked from underneath the door, the rest of them piled against the checkerboard tile.

Crane shook his hands dry and swung the stall door open.

Damn it.

It was Jim, jaw slack, eyes blown open and sporting a gruesome neck wound. He shut his eyes tight and ground his teeth together. There was nothing he could do for him now.

Crane walked out of the bathroom and into the center of the diner. Two entities lay on the floor. They were gravely beaten, but not dead, only a stake to the heart would slay them.

"If your contractor sends another one of you to me again," he met eyes with a reawakening nosferatu, "I will not be nearly as merciful."

He stumbled out of the broken door.

**_v._**

They reached the end of one of the several corridors in the house. To any person unversed with the inner workings of the manor, it looked like a dead end. Luckily for Crane and Abraham, they knew this place from the inside out and weren't fooled by the protective system they had created to begin with.

Crane brushed his hands against specific parts of the wall, as if tracing an invisible sigil into the ivory finish with his fingertips. Seconds later, the wall whirred to life and, seemingly out of oblivion, a steel door formed.

Abraham shifted Marcus's body on his shoulder, waiting for them to slide open. Years of disuse left the passage underground creaky and sluggish, but in due time, the slabs of metal parted.

Abraham strode into the dusty lift, Crane, a shaken step behind. The metallic, rusted cage and single trembling bulb reminded him of the war room - not here for the artifice of excellence, but for practical use. Although, unlike the war room, underground wasn't improved every decade or so and thus stayed unnervingly the same since the time it was constructed.

The descent was slow and stifling, the lift juddering and whining the whole way down. But that's not what got under his skin. It was the reek of blood that, even after numerous scourings, remained to haunt him and strangle the breath out his body.

The ghosts of the past were vehement.

The dated elevator came to a stop and, at their arrival, columns of faint lights blinked on. It was still dark.

They passed rows of eroding cells and shelves filled with devices for torturing entities: silver for Lycanthropes, iron for faes, and salt for demons; a numerous amount of ordnances that would work for all.

They came to a stop at one of the many tables in the room, although these weren't meant for dining. Each was equipped with cursed leather straps and a series of pulleys and ropes to help it pivot.

Abraham fastened Marcus to the table and, when he was secured, yanked the makeshift stake out his chest. Marcus sputtered, rousing from his pain-induced sleep with a jolt. He scanned his surroundings feverishly, turning his head as far in either direction as the belts would allow.

"W-where the hell am I?"

Abraham shrugged off his mantle and cherished coat. He shucked his sleeves up his muscled arms.

"Doesn't matter. I have a few questions I can believe you can elucidate for me." He unbuckled his poleax from its safe place on his back. Once in his palms, the Axe of Enoch lit aflame burning brighter than every light in the room combined.

The blaze danced in Marcus's black eyes. They all could hear his heart slamming against his chest.

Only minutes in and before any real torturing could even begin, Crane wanted to turn tail and leave, the excuse of his sapped energy and sickness giving him leave to return above ground. He knew Abraham would see right through him however so Crane leaned against one of the cells, the cruelty not a great enough distance away.

The entire construction of the underground was built on a lie whispered into his ear from Parliament. A honeyed fallacy justifying that everything he did here—the torturing, the dismembering, the killing—was for the greater good. To maintain stability, although none existed in the first place, by eliminating any threat to Parliament's oppressive rule.

They were so beguiled by the promise of righteousness, they didn't mind the bloodshed until it all splashed back in their face as the entities revolted. Until his pack mutinied and became the driving force in dismantling the government, garnering unmerited trust from the same people he sealed underground.

They were here for entirely different reasons today but an itch at the corner of his mind screamed he was relapsing.

"Who sent the bounty?" Abraham queried, face inches away from Marcus'.

"I don't know," he ground out, choosing to stare at the cobblestone walls.

"Is that so?"

"I ain't telling you shit!"

The beta's lips thinned into a hard line. His axe burned with fervor as he swung, burying it into the wood next to his captive's head. Embers shot from the table and sizzled against Marcus' skin. He thrashed fruitlessly against the restraints, but all his supernatural strength drained from his body soon as the straps brushed his skin.

"Are you swayed?"

"Fuck you."

Marcus spat directly into Abraham's eye.

Crane's old partner was deathly silent as he straightened, abandoning his poleaxe in the wood. Crane traced him through them gloom as Abraham ran his hands along the shelves of weapons until he was satisfied with what he held in hand.

A wooden crucifix filed at each end into a point. Blessed by a pope—by Pius VI himself—and drenched in holy oil that survived through the ages.

Crane almost pitied him.

If Marcus's heart hammered before, it was humming now. His skin was sleek with a layer of sweat, hands fluttering at either side. His tongue swiped out to bring moisture to his lips but his mouth had gone dry. Wet tracks stained his cheeks and the tears gathered at his chin, chest quivered with every blubbering breath he took.

Abraham forced the cross to the hollow of the nosferatu's bobbing throat. Instantly, the chamber was filled with that same ear-splitting screech that wailed across the diner. The lights buzzed and winked.

He stepped back as if to admire his work - a charred imprint of crucifix stamped on his neck; a sure reminder that Abraham's tolerance was low.

"Do not tax my fucking patience." Marcus craned his head away but the bone-crushing grip on his chin steadied any movement. "I have no qualms spending the rest of this week using every bloody tool in here to make you talk. You think this is unbearable?" Abraham flashed a lifeless grin, dragging the tip across his collarbone. "This is child's play. Continue to bite your tongue; it's only a matter of time until I get bored with this stake and move onto that arbalest resting on the shelves." He pat Marcus's soaked cheek. "Your choice."

Words came tumbling out of Marcus' lips like a broken dam.

"I-I don't know his name—shit, nobody does—but he's big. Really big." He paused, letting Abraham give him space. "A couple years after that coward you call a leader ran away, he rose up from nowhere and immediately started running shit. H-he has a whole new set of lapdogs at his foot! Witches, d-demons, and lycans mostly, but there are a couple others out there too. If anybody tried to cross him, his fucking lackeys handled it for him." He swallowed the saliva forming at the edge of his mouth. "Entities tried to take him down before. The vampires did it first and look where they are now. The fae tried to compromise like the chicken shit pussies they are and got completely wiped out in a m-month. I'm talkin' about genocide—a goddamn holocaust. He had bodies strung up all over the place to set an example." He snorted bitterly. "I thought Parliament was a piece of shit with you guys but he…he's fucking abysmal."

"What about the other races? The faun, the colossal and Lycanthropes?" Crane piped in, stomach twisting in knots. His census made it clear almost none of them existed in North America anymore, but maybe they escaped to a different continent. Maybe he could have a fighting chance if they banded together.

"D-decimated, dead and killed off." He paused thoughtfully. "He took his time with the werewolves, though. He spent years getting rid of them when we all know he could've had them gone like -"Marcus snapped his fingers. "Seems like this guy's been looking for you for a very long time."

What?

The nosferatu rattled on.

"He said that if we find Crane and bring his head to one of his lapdogs, we'd get a nice, cozy spot in his hierarchy in the New World. He's plannin' something big; we all know it. Got those dumbass lycans actually forming a thought process and the Wicca to take the broom outta' their vaginas—this shit is serious."

Questions swirled in his head at a dizzying speed, but he needed to focus on one at a time.

"This morning," Crane began slowly, allowing his words to form in his mind before he spoke. "You knew I was headed your way - you were prepared. How?"

"Witches came to me in the middle of the night, handed me that dirk and told me you would be around soon enough. They left their scent around town hoping you would catch it and you did." Marcus cracked a toothy smile, obviously hysterical. "God, they were fucking pissed. I don't know what the hell you did to them but they were 'bout ready to come after you themselves."

The church. It had to have been the church; the cracked column or the fact he figured it out in the first place. Something he did to that cathedral while mind-walking must have struck a nerve and hindered this meticulous, overelaborate scheme in a fashion that it affronted him. It made him antsy.

"What do you know about a church?"

"A church? What is this, bible study?"

"Answer the damned question."

"I don't know shit about a church, okay? I don't know shit about anything else aside from what I just told you. If you're going to kill me, just fucking do it already."

Abraham was all too happy to have his poleaxe in his hand again. He lifted his arms and made to swing down but Crane grabbed the weapon by its neck.

"That's enough," he said coolly, tightening his hold on the Axe of Enoch. They stood in a wordless battle before his beta resigned, snatching his weapon away from Crane.

Marcus bucked against his restraints.

"No, no, no, no, no! C-come back here a finish it! He's going to find out I told and kill me anyhow—just do it!"

"You're not going to die here; this house is completely fortified."

The property surrounding the manor? Not so much, seeing lycans had managed to breach it. Getting inside the house itself however was damn near impossible.

"Kill me, please! I-I'm begging you!"

Abraham threw Crane a sour look.

"You're safe here."

He stepped into the rickety lift, the sound of Marcus's wailing following him the entire way up.

**_vi._**

The war chamber felt a little less ominous between the two of them. Of course there was the alarming undercurrent that if Abraham blew one of his infamous fuses, any weapon in the room would kill him straightaway but he digressed. He would take this ceasefire at face value and leave contemplating the simmering tension underneath his skin for another day.

Until then, he was fine occupying his time with the map once encased in glass at the center of the table. There was a desperate need for corrections after his census and, in the lull after Marcus's unsettling confessions, vapid work like remarking entity territories subdued a few nerves.

So Crane sat in the stiff chair, inking in the measly few places where the supernatural could still be found.

Abraham roamed the opposite side of the room, reacquainting himself with the plethora of armaments on the racks. He held a faraway mien, probably reminiscing on the past for each weapon told a tale. Cradled in his hand, with the utmost care, was an Enfield rifled musket. A beauty from the antebellum south, with its shiny steel, oak wood and enough Pagan seals grooved in the sides to send a sinner to church, it even came equipped with a clip of thick, lead bullets packed with pure sodium.

"I remember the mission for this," he said to no one. He waved the musket around. "Parliament wouldn't leave us alone; we got a telegraph every bloody day to get it back from the Pruina coven."

Despite himself, Crane gave a ghost of a smile.

"They had a reason to be adamant." The gun was an efficient killer for most entities; a powerful blast, a long range and a disabling spell in each bullet that rendered regenerative abilities useless. They got a hold of the prototype before the coven could mass produce.

"Indeed," he murmured. "You almost died storming their hold."

"As did you."

"I wasn't almost burned on an effigy."

He chuckled quietly. How he missed the times when their friendship was easy and not ridden with guilt and compunction. Because even as they jested, both were vigilant, knowing the wrong word or tone could send them spiraling into another argument.

Abraham placed the musket on the rack, observing the rest with noticeably less interest. His pale face was passive but Crane knew a question ate him away.

"I've been wandering this manor for hours now," he finally spoke, several minutes later, "and the smell of humans is so thick in the air it's suffocating."

"When I reawakened, the house was in utter disrepair. I hired people, they came and fixed it." He replied, clipped and nonchalant.

"Those scents are stale. There is a constant human smell here; like jasmine and…honey."

Crane stopped drawing, tightening his hold on the pen. He had to tell his old friend about Abigail eventually but Abraham completely opposed the idea of human interaction after they turned. He was ruthless and often brutish but held a fine line of principals he wouldn't cross.

Unlike him, who'd been crossing those lines more times than he could tally.

He continued to take in deep breaths through his nose, shutting his eyes in concentration. Tense seconds passed before he reopened them.

"Your scents are heavily intermingled," his voice raised an octave, closing the gap between him and his alpha. He slammed his palms on the table. The inkwell tipped over. "Crane, what have you done?"

He opened his mouth, but the fibs died on his tongue. The soul-piercing glare was enough evidence that any of his lies would be transparent and useless. His neck and ear were hot in mortification. Gooseflesh puckered his skin.

"She came to me, here at this manor to investigate the bodies the lycans abandoned on our property." He tried to swallow the sticky heat, but his throat constricted. "It was just days after I came to, my wolf was used to being in control and I was weak. 'Not fully I because the veil between human and man was so very thin that evening. And…and her scent is intoxicating—_he_ felt it then, too." Just at the mere thought of Miss Mills, he could feel the beast rearing its ugly head. "I frightened her and she thought I'd gone barmy. But, I told her about Lycanthropy anyhow. And when she was unsuspecting, I bit her." He exhaled shakily, the gravity of his mistake finally dawning on him. "I marked her, Abraham."

He could envision the reddened patch on her lovely neck.

There was a full five seconds between his confession and Abraham smashing a hole into the table.

"God damn it, Crane - are you fucking mad?!" He ran his fingers through his mussed, blonde hair. "Do you not remember the reform we spent months creating after Parliament?"

"Abr—"

"I asked you a bloody question!" Abraham couldn't stand still anymore, pacing about the room. "Do you remember the reform? Amendment one because we said it was most important."

How could he ever forget?

"'All entities under the rule of the new government shall not engage in human activity, communicate with humans, nor turn them for any racial, instinctive or personal purposes.'"

He threw his hands up. "Yes! We know firsthand how destructive it is to drag humans in the midst of supernatural relations. Hell; you've seen it with your own two eyes!" Abraham moved closer again, unable to decide whether he wanted to cave Crane's skull in or distance himself forever. "Richard Addams committed suicide because he couldn't take that life anymore. Jeremy Ford was torn apart by rivaling entities. Uriel Candice was so alone being one of the last humans to know about entities, he told his son and we had to kill them both. There is a pattern here, Crane! This world - this inhumane and corrupt world is not meant for them. All you've done is condemn this woman to a lifetime of solitude and secrets!" He slung the map off the table. "And all for what?"

Abraham's vehement words struck a chord within Crane. Something cleared this haze of blissful ignorance whenever he was in the presence of Abigail. She'd gotten thin and weary, skin and dark eyes no longer filled with life. Who knew how she was coping after their scarring visit to the morgue, where a corpse literally sprang back to life and he, her only confidant in all of this, nearly crossed over into the afterlife?

How could he have been so selfish? How did he not know?

Abraham plopped down in a seat, looking thoroughly exhausted. Tired, but so disappointed and livid with no meaningful outlet.

"We have a mass exodus of entities heading over to New York, ready to kill anything that smells remotely like you, and now we have a woman whose scent is nearly a complete replica of yours."

Crane curled his fists.

"I will protect her life with my own."

Abraham scoffed. "The only one she needs protection from is you!" a meticulous pause. "If you care about this woman the way I think you do, you send her on a one-way plane to Europe, wipe her memory and never let her come back." Crane opened his mouth, but Abraham silenced him with a look. "If not, her blood is on _your_ hands."


	6. The Hanged Man

***Edited: 1/5/16**

* * *

**_solstice_**

_the hanged man_

* * *

**_.v_**

The sun was merciless. _Hot, relentless and liberal with its heat, scorching everything its rays licked. It wasn't the humid, suffocating warmth they were used to, but rather soul-sucking, dry waves that made Abbie's skin itch the entire walk from school. Sweat gathered at her hairline and slicked her neck. Next to her, Jenny was drenched from head to toe; certainly a trait inherited from their late father._

_Summer was making its presence well known in the troubled outskirts of Sleepy Hollow._

_ "__Can we go home now?" Jenny moaned, wiping her forehead with the back of her hand. Abbie cut eyes at her for the nth time in the past half hour._

_"__Not yet."_

_"__Why not?"_

_"__Because I don't _want _to."_

_Jenny pursed her mouth, tiny hands curled around the straps of her backpack. She had that sour expression on her face, the one where her nose wrinkled and her thick brows pinched together, but contained her contempt for a few seconds—a record for her._

_"__Mama's gonna' be mad at you."_

_Abbie scoffed and kicked a bit of gravel from the asphalt. She watched it roll into the withering sward._

_"__Mama's _always _mad at me."_

_She knew that eventually she'd have to return to the brick house with a full set of broken windows. That she was running out of longer routes to take home, and the excuse she'd "gotten lost" lost its worth early in spring._

_She ground her lip until it was raw and dotted with blood; she ran her tongue over the specks._

_"__Fine," she bit out. Jenny brightened at this, a bounce in her step as they changed directions._

_With their house only two streets over, it took less than five minutes to reach their lot. Mama's hoary, '78 Cadillac Brougham parked in the driveway. Even with its threadbare tires, drooping bumper and myriad of engine problems, the rust bucket managed—by the grace of God—to scoot the family to school and work every day. It was an inoperable hunk of metal, but her mother kept it around for sentimental value, like she did with the rest of her father's things._

_Abbie slid her fingertips along the rusted paint, a few chips clinging to her skin. Usually she could tell how long her mother's been home by the temperature of the car, but the surrounding heat rendered that trick useless._

_Her legs were sore and trembled as she trudged up the steps. Jenny didn't fare any better behind her, panting and carping when the sun peeked out behind a lone cloud. Safely underneath the house's awning, she fished in her uniform pockets for the key. When she couldn't find it, she moved to slide her bag off and continue the search there._

_A pair of rusted hinges squealed before her. Her heart lodged in her throat._

_She didn't need to look to know her mother's dark figure pried the door open; one hand wrapped around the knob, the other flat against the doorframe. But for some godforsaken reason—morbid curiosity, maybe—she spared a glance._

_Abbie half expected the rash, neurotic anger she became familiar with; the sporadic bouts of wrath that made Mama yell and throw dishware across the house for hours. __The blind rage spun every misfortune into an omen of damnation so she'd feverishly pray on her knees—breathless atonements for her sacrilege—until her voice grew hoarse__. It was thunderous and disturbing, but predictable._

_This soundless, inscrutable detachment was not._

_Jenny snapped her mouth shut, the shift in atmosphere so sudden and violent even she—in all her naïve, juvenile glory_—_recognized it. She swallowed and dipped underneath Mama's arm._

_Abbie breathed in shallow spurts. Her ribcage felt too small to hold her heart. She followed in Jenny's footsteps, bending underneath her mother's outstretched limb and into the dim foyer. The door clicked shut behind her. She kept her eyes trained on anything else than looming presence beside her._

_She squinted at the single source of light in the house; the swinging bulb above the kitchen table. There, two plates of food rested on the table; cold mashed potatoes and even colder slabs of steak. Jenny took a seat behind one, prodding the beef dispassionately. Mama sat beside the other._

_She didn't even touch it._

_Abbie rooted herself between the two, forcing her hands still underneath the table. Minutes ticked by. The keening of forks scraping against porcelain was the only sound. Her stomach pinched and growled, but she didn't dare ask for the uneaten dish. She just bit her tender lip and waited for the vociferous outrage she knew how to cope with._

_It never came._

_Instead, in monotone, her mother said: "You were late coming home from school today."_

_She flinched, but quickly fired off an excuse. "I-I was hanging out with Sister Mary's boys from a block away. We l-lost track of time." It was a blatant, shoddy lie. Mama tilted her head. Her eyes narrowed into black slits._

_"__Mary's boys have basketball practice 'till seven tonight."_

Shit.

_She wanted to open her mouth and rectify her blunder. Wanted to rush out her seat and lock herself in her room until this passed. However, she couldn't do anything. Couldn't think. Couldn't move. If someone asked for her name, she probably couldn't even tell them that._

_The old TV snapped on somewhere inside of the living room. The static occupied the silence._

_That sent Mama over the edge. She stood so quickly the seat clattered to the ground behind her, scaring the fork out of Jenny's hand. In a heartbeat, the space between Abbie and her mother slimmed to nothing. The crippling grip on her elbow sent a tremor up her arm; she nearly tripped over her feet with the force she was yanked down the hall._

_"__Mama, please!" she begged raspingly. Tears sprang to life and slid down her cheeks in rivulets. Mama didn't stop for a second, though; jerking and dragging her daughter against the tile like a runt headed for slaughter. The grout bit into her skin. She kicked and thrashed. Searched for a ledge to grab, but the wall's finish was slick. Her fingers broke away within moments._

_They stopped before the broom closet at the end of the hall. Abbie was granted measly seconds to recollect herself. To form a compelling plea before she was forced in Mama's makeshift confession room, furnished with every holy passage and icon known to man. With stiff figures who didn't bat an eye at what was done in their name._

_"__I won't lie to you again, I s-swear! Don—"_

_She threw the door open. Tossed Abbie inside with such vigor she skid against the ground and slammed her shoulder into a nail jutting from the floorboard. Her eyes flew open, jaw working soundlessly. Blood bloomed on the back of her shirt; it seeped down the length of the spike and made its home in the cracks._

_"__I didn't carry you for nine months only to give birth to a filthy sinner." She spat, eyes wide and harsh. "You stay there and pray for forgiveness, you hear me?"_

_The door creaked shut, followed by a metallic click. The room was encompassed in ink._

Dear father in heaven…

**_i._**

Abbie sucked in air as if she'd been drowning for hours. Her eyes snapped open, back arching towards the sky. Her vision darted in the gloom for any indication she wasn't still _there_.

Abbie felt around in the dark, hands falling against the cool wooden headboard. The sheets were strewn around her legs, the dampness of her sweat-soaked comforter wetting her fingertips; she let out a shuddering exhale.

Her heart hammered in her chest like the angry fist of a god. Anxiety shaped a noose around her windpipe—_fuck_, she could scarcely breathe—that tautened with each moment. There was an indiscernible pain in her stomach. Not the telltale flip-flopping before vomiting, but rather a tense, quavering feeling; like a balloon with paper thin elastic brimming with water.

She shot up and crawled to the opposite side of her bed, flicking the lamp light on so quickly her wrist cracked.

Light flooded the room—_her _room; not whichever fucked up closet she thought she was trapped in when she came to. Rather than unsettling porcelains of Mary and Joseph perched on every shelf, rustic earthenware lined the countertops. There was a relieving absence of religious text, and an even more consoling insight that her mother was locked away in psych ward. One numerous miles away from Sleepy Hollow where she'd likely rot.

But that did fuck-all for the panic attack that raced through her.

Hot tears burned her face. Her entire body shook. She choked through her sobs and couldn't _stop_.

This was the fifth consecutive night she roused like this; lost and fruitless to stop the downwards spiral that's become her mental health. After so many goddamn years, she thought she was _done _with this. Done with the _episodes_ and her _mother _and _everything _that had to do with her sorry excuse for a childhood.

She didn't even _remember _any of the "dreams" surging forth during her sleep. However, she knew with clarity they were memories dredged up from some dank corner of her brain; they were too explicit to be a fabricated experience her subconscious strung together.

And the nail that impaled her shoulder? She had a pin-sized scar on her back in the exact area; it wasn't a coincidence.

_She can't hurt me anymore._

Those five words became her mantra for the next half-hour. Eventually the panic subsided, but the anguish never ebbed.

Abbie scooted to the edge of her bed and slid off. She sauntered to the bathroom, splashed her face with icy water before heading to the kitchen. Her legs shook as if she's never walked a day in her life. She held onto the wall for support.

She chewed her lip, staring into her glass of water. It was at times like this that she wished she'd sought the psychiatric help as she'd been advised, all those years ago. During her mother's trial, she dodged doctors, counselors and social workers like they were harbingers of death. Hell, maybe if she hadn't, she wouldn't have hit nadir mere weeks after Mama's incarceration.

LSD coupled with PTSD didn't make for the best trip.

Surely it was too late for her now. She's been repressing her illnesses for over fifteen years. She built this faux semblance of normalcy from the ground up and she couldn't exactly say, _"Yeah, __I'm having a psychological relapse about my abusive mother, undoubtedly triggered by the by the fact I think lycans are gonna' stick me the moment I step outside. Oh, and I also brought a dead guy back to life five days ago; that probably fucked __me up too__."_

They'd incarcerate her in an instant.

She finished off her water and placed the cup in the sink. It was ass o'clock in the morning, the sun hadn't even risen yet, but she sure as hell wasn't taking her chances in the sack again. She ambled mindlessly around her apartment, distracting herself through housework.

Her apartment wasn't as filthy as she thought it would be; just dusty. Stacks of books dominated several surfaces; used paper and empty pens splayed across her table. The usual perpetrators, empty pill and water bottles, riddled throughout the living room, but in minutes they were disposed.

Abbie hovered over a nondescript manila folder on her desk. She opened the flap and thumbed through the grotesque photos, papers from the ungodly plan Crane concocted poking out the pile. His calligraphy was neat and careful; its juxtaposition to the grisly print it was written on was unsettling.

Ichabod Crane, the world's greatest fucking enigma.

It wasn't that she didn't _know _Crane. In the short time they've spent together, his character was easy to read. He was impulsive, gallingly secretive and his presence demanded attention, although his nature didn't match the domineering undercurrent he brought to every conversation. His intelligence was mindboggling and she could imagine he'd talk for hours about nothing just to fill a silence.

Nevertheless, his personality didn't explain the manor entirely too big for one person, although it's evident he once wasn't alone. Or his drive to take on an entire army of supernatural horrors with or without her. Nor did it explain the lengths said army was willing to go to stop _one _man because he clearly—_somehow_—posed a threat.

Despite all that, Abbie trusted him; she hated that she did. This _trust _made her vulnerable, made her susceptible to getting hurt. It annulled the last bearings on her rules, and she was left muddled in some abstruse moral ground because of it.

_Rule number one; survive._

She performed a spell that could've resuscitated hundreds of deceased, _Night of the Living Dead _style, or just flat-out killed her.

_Rule number two; don't trust anyone._

She followed him through hell and high water. She didn't even know how old he was.

_Rule number three; stay the _fuck away _from anything that dealt with the paranormal._

This was the most laughable in light of recent events. She vowed to avoid anything remotely religious, but here she was, evading _hellhounds _and _demons_ and other bullshit.

It came full circle; back to this inexplicable reason she held faith in him. Even after he abandoned her for months with no premonition, she was ready to hop back to his side after what could've amounted to a pinky promise. Even _then_ she had to trust him to keep his word.

And she did.

Was it the righteous air he carried? The poise? The British charm? The outdated chivalry? The fact he couldn't keep his hands to himself and every spectral touch lit her skin aflame?

Abbie rubbed circles into her temples. If she kept thinking so hard, she was going to bust a vein in her frontal lobe.

She had hours to burn before duty called her to the station. Seeing as sleep wasn't an option, she prepared black coffee. Abbie took the steaming mug and settled onto her sofa, plucking an old logbook from the mounting pile of books she'd rented, courtesy of _Adaeze's Undead Emporium_.

Initially, she was hesitant to delve headfirst into the warped cyphers of an estranged world. However, her naiveté was quickly becoming an obstacle. She couldn't hold Crane back with her inexperience. Lest she's caught without him, she couldn't sit around with her thumb up her ass until he miraculously appeared to save her? She was known for adapting to her circumstances; she wouldn't let this case be any different.

This particular chronicle focused on Lycanthropy. It was a worn, leather-bound journal dating to the late seventeenth century and written by a man under the pseudonym Guleilmus Raphe. He was a printer in York, England until he was murdered by a werewolf, only to resurrect the next day as one of _them_.

She picked up where she ended yesterday, bringing the mug to her lips as she read.

_NOVEMBER 8__TH__, 1664_

_I know naught of what I am now, or what will become of me when I die. Or what will become this _body_ once my soul moves on from this realm to the next. Do we met our ends together? Are we one? Two who inhabit the same body? Mind? Unluckily for I, answers are hard to come about._

_— __GR_

_NOVEMBER 9__TH__, 1664_

_Death frequents my thoughts daily; I am inexplicably drawn to it. Before I metamorphosed into this abomination, I was ghastly afraid of the concept. Horrified to think that in one instant you are sentient, but in the next there is oblivion._

_Now? I frequented four funerals today; three young men, and one crone. Each one, I didn't know who was laid to rest—bless them—but I attended nonetheless. I just lingered under the wilting weeping willow, clad in black, observing from a distance away._

_Anyone who saw me must've been stricken. Must've thought I was the Reaper himself, here to seize passing loved ones for their adultery._

_However, I am just a man riveted by the aroma and taste of death, yet unable to die himself._

_— __GR_

_NOVEMBER 10__TH__, 1664_

_I've been trapped like this for an entire fortnight. I am not a pious man—I refuse to partake in the violent affairs of Protestants and Catholics—but I've found myself praying to God every night since. I pray that he either take this illness away, or kill me._

_The fickle loiter-sack has done neither._

_— __GR_

_NOVEMBER 11__TH__, 1664_

_I know what death tastes like. It is orgasmic._

_— __GR_

_NOVEMBER 12__TH__, 1664_

_The Black Death is a tempting thing. It devastates villages like a tempest, leaving empty homes and mountains of bodies too plentiful for customary entombments. So they dig into the earth for weeks, constructing a crude burial site for hundreds. Mass graves, where rot becomes the alluring scent akin to a siren's song._

_Yesternight was a lapse in judgement. The sickly old man was half-dead, thrown into the streets by his own kinfolk. He was delirious and blubbering. I would've been wrong to let him suffer until the plague took him. I made his demise as painless as possible. Then in a fit of sudden, ravenous hunger, I consumed him._

_Today was nearly the same, though all fifteen people thrown into the pit were already dead. I would've been wrong to let them be disrespected like so. I rectified the issue in the same manner as the last. There were six young ladies, seven young men and three children; I didn't leave a ligament behind for the rats._

_I want to say I am disgusted with myself, but how could I when I am so satisfied? The other part of me—the parasite—is content. He makes it hard to distinguish our emotions from one another, even harder to tell wrong from right._

_— __GR_

Abbie stilled, mind racing. The whole "_I devour the dead_" bit wasn't new—she knew firsthand from Crane—but Raphe's entries added a degree of distorted intimacy with the horrors of Lycanthropy. While she never took pointers from _Twilight _folklore, the glorification of werewolf lifestyles was misleading. The dichotomy between wolf and man sharing the same vessel seemed exhausting. The entire transformation processes was bloody and gruesome—rather than morphing into a wolf, said creature _grew _inside of the host until it burst through the human body, and vice versa—and nothing short of traumatizing.

**_ii._**

Soon enough, the sky melded from stark blackness to the gentle cerulean and golden hues of daybreak. She swept through her morning routine, stopping only to adjust the badge on her uniform. She slapped her hair into a ponytail halfway out the door, bounded down the complex's staircase and hopped into her truck.

The station swarmed with media. News vans parked outside the property. A few desperate reporters and starving journalists wandered around the precinct's door, waiting for any egressing officials to badger answers from. Although Westchester County's police station became the depraved media's favorite hangout spot, today's crowd was larger and antsier than the others. After a hefty wait and much debates amongst the higher-ups, the entire Westchester District of New York received heavy National Guard involvement and a strict curfew, which would take place today. Schools' reopening date postponed until next week and parents were troubled of what this spelled for the town.

Bypassing the loitering press, Abbie pushed the heavy door open and began her arduous day of work. The precinct was busy per usual. The telephones pealed incessantly—her office walls weren't thick enough, damn it—while subordinates scuttled to each end of the building, delivering reports like mailmen. She settled into her cushioned swivel-chair, performing the thankless job of micromanaging and preparing staff reports.

It's halfway through the third robbery account from _Kwick-Mart_ when the distending pressure made itself known again. Her foot rapped under her desk. She chalked it up as anxiety, or at least tried to. As each second—stretching for hours at a time—passed, it augmented. Spread from her stomach to her entire torso like a virus.

The hand holding her pen quivered violently. Her skin felt tight, as if it was no longer pliant enough to keep her insides _inside_.

She rued the day she did that stupid fucking spell, the likely genesis of this sensation. Perhaps there were ramifications for first-time magic users? Maybe screwing with voodoo tacked some fiend or satanic illness to her? She doubted Crane would leave her in the dark about something as critical as that, but she was scraping for answers.

Just the thought of the morgue sent a convulsion through her stiff body. When she returned to the station the morning after, there was nothing. The slate had been wiped clean; the atrocities they committed seemingly never existed. She scoured every recorded phone call in case she overlooked anything, but she was met with the same results.

The mortician and his colleagues surely would've phoned the police. Her DNA coated the crime scene and she had an extensive record; there weren't any logical reasons she wasn't in jail right now, waiting on the guilty verdict for body defacement.

She craned her neck and stretched her arms above her head, hoping to ease the wracking tension. There was a knock then a squeak as the door pried open. A stout woman poked her head in the room.

"You have a visitor waiting for you in the lobby, Lieutenant." She spoke briskly, disappearing as quickly as she came. Abbie frowned, took a sip of the water bottle on her desk, and exited her quarters.

From her peripheral vision, she spotted Luke. He strolled in the opposite direction, files of paper tucked in his underarm. It's been radio silence between them since he stormed out her home weeks ago. This was their longest dispute yet.

She felt his eyes burning holes through her back.

Abbie bent the corner to see Crane settled in a plastic chair too small for him, sporting a displeased countenance as he perused a magazine. Instead of his normal ponytail, his hair rested on his shoulders, the rest tumbling down his back. He wore his iconic, timeworn coat over colonial garb, legs crossed like a proper Englishman.

Upon her arrival, he flipped _US Weekly_ closed and stood.

"Good day, Miss Mills," he said, once again doing that _thing_ where he invaded her space, leaving scant inches between them. His warmth—did werewolves produce excessive heat?—enveloped her, swathing her body like a duvet in midwinter.

She smiled. It was weak and tired.

"I'm assuming you didn't come all the way to my job for doughnuts and coffee." she said, planting her hands on her hips.

Crane peered down at her, dark lashes fanning his pale cheeks.

"I'm afraid not. Perhaps one day soon, we should." He cleared his throat, eyeing the people milling to-and-fro around them. He leaned closer so only she could hear. Crane's soft, tawny beard tickled her cheek; the lulling scent of sandalwood and earth filled her nose. Her breath hitched. "May we…speak in private?" his mirthful tone dissipated, falling into a serious, low timbre that reverberated in chest.

Mouth dry, she nodded.

The sound of papers crashing behind her seized her attention; she glimpsed back. It was Luke, fumbling with the files in his arms. He snatched each off the ground with enough force to crumple it. Shoved documents haphazardly into random folders—crass, even for him.

Crane drew back, but not far enough so she didn't feel swallowed by his gripping presence. Tempestuous eyes locked on Luke's rigid form, his jaw squared in either irritation or curiosity.

Luke had that lasting effect on people.

She pressed her hand against Crane's chest.

"Let's go." She breathed, throwing one last glance over her shoulder. He didn't look back. If anything, he doggedly avoided her gaze. She swallowed the sticky lump in her throat, exiting the door Crane held open.

"So what's the deal today?" They found a secluded area near the back of the precinct, next to Crane's car. She's only seen it once before, but it was storming then and she was preoccupied with an existential crisis. It was a sleek beauty, a classic. Exorbitant whenever it first issued, surely a priceless antique now.

"There's a few startling, recent developments."

"That's news?" she interrupted, a single eyebrow shooting to her hairline.

"In most circumstances, no; however, this is slightly more alarming than usual." She stared into his eyes, urging him to continue. He worked his jaw a few times. Curled and splayed his fingers before artlessly blurting: "I'm being hunted."

She could almost applaud him for his frankness, a great feat for Crane.

"By who? The usual squad of big-bads tearing this town to pieces?"

"Not quite." He proceeded to look more miffed than apprehensive. He bore a pissy expression—lips curled in dissatisfaction, brows furrowed—like this was a mere inconvenience than an _actual _death threat. "Apparently I have a hefty bounty on my shoulders for any entity willing to go toe-to-toe with me and return with my head. Which, of course, was dearly sent out by none other than the ringleader of this ploy."

Abbie chewed her lip. She figured she was right about a head honcho; people—or _entities_, she should say—didn't execute organized crime flawlessly without someone running the operation.

"How much money are we talking about here? A couple hundred thousand? A _million_?" Even without vital information from Crane's past, Abbie could deduce he held great importance at one time. Regular Joe's weren't equipped with decadent manors and presumably enough money for her great-grand kids to retire at twenty.

"Likely more," he sighed, leaning against his slick, black car. He folded his arms. "In addition, there's a promise of status and power in this '_New World_' I've heard about."

There was a break to let the words soak, but she'd never fully grasp the weight of supernatural affairs.

"So you've pissed the guy off, and now he wants you dead." She abridged. She was silent for a beat. "What the hell did you _do_?"

Crane grinned, a lopsided, arrogant tilt of his lips she'd never seen before. Completely unsuitable for the grim tone of the conversation, but arresting nevertheless.

"We were right about the church; it's important to him, to this plan. He must've been affronted by something I did while mind-walking. Perhaps just our discovery of the base threatened him enough to seek action immediately."

"So what's next? How are we supposed to get back to the church if it doesn't _exist_ here?" She flashbacked to the debacle at the morgue; the thought made her heart hammer loud enough for both to hear.

"You won't have to do that again," he replied quietly, reading her like an open book with illustrations. Abbie didn't respond, just shifted her weight from one foot to another and studied the coverts behind his head.

"Lieutenant?" the same woman from earlier called, looking around the side of the building.

"I have to go." She huffed, rubbing the discoloration on her neck. "Just swing by my apartment after seven and we can finish this conversation there, m'kay?"

She strode a couple feet away before turning on her heel, catching him as he ducked into his car.

"Oh, and Crane," he paused. "For the love of fuck, _please _get a phone."

He shot her a half smile—_did he wink at her?_—disappearing into his dark vehicle and peeling out the lot as if auditioning for the Daytona 500. He was lucky he's the deciding factor of the world, otherwise she would've slapped him with a pricey ticket; not that it would dent his wallet anyway.

She joined her subordinate, who hastily wiped the saliva from the corner of her mouth. She led Abbie into the building and to Irving's office. Abbie dismissed her with a curt nod, opening the captain's door and stepping inside.

Irving was the worse for wear. Bags shaded his eyes. A previously full head of black hair speckled with silver along his hairline. Wrinkles grooved into his face, his age finally catching him in the foulest way. He examined her from head-to-toe also.

After several moments, he eventually spoke.

"You look like shit." he deadpanned.

"Same for you, Captain."

He cracked a grin, waving for her to take the seat in front of his desk.

Such uncouth comments between a Captain and his Lieutenant weren't sanctioned in a dour environment. However, their bond transcended the rules and regulations of their careers.

Their connection began with August Corbin. The late Captain dragged her out a toxic, druggy rut in her life when everyone deemed her a lost cause. He spent years with Abbie, coaching morals in a teen that'd rather waste her evening taking X and shooting heroin. She was stubborn, but he was more so than her; it's probably why they squandered months quarrelling, usually spurred by her, before making any progress.

Still, Corbin was the father she wished had lived long enough to know. The wholesome love she lacked with her mother. The stability and devotion Aunt Mae and Uncle Phil no longer had the will to provide her.

When cancer took him, it was understandable when she crumbled in two.

She almost relapsed several times. Irving, being a distant friend of Corbin's before he passed, picked up where the older man left off. He wasn't fostering and gentle like the ex-Captain; he was blunt and didn't take her self-pity as excuses. But he was what she needed.

"I need to cash in a favor." He said, reaching the point straightaway. She threw him a look, stunned. Frank wasn't a "favor" kind of guy. He slept, ate and shit by the proverb "if you want something done right, do it yourself." And even then, if he went out-of-the-way to help with something, he didn't expect rewards; he only did what he wanted.

"Yeah sure, anything." She meant it.

"Macey needs to be babysat over the weekend. Reyes and the rest of the FBI have been on my ass about regulating the curfew. The National Guard sure as shit hasn't been any better, either." With his fingers, he smoothened the lines across his forehead. "I don't have time to watch over her, but I need to make sure she's _safe_."

It was his way of admitting he was afraid. That he knew aside from a shiny badge, nothing separated him from the hundreds of parents whose children went missing in the night.

Abbie reached over the desk and put her hand over his. She stared into his weary depths with resolve.

"I'll be there, Irving." She tightened her grasp. "I'll protect Macey."

**_iii._**

When she told Crane he needed a phone, she didn't expect him actually getonethat _exact day_. Neither did she predict he'd get swindled into buying one of those fancy phones too big for practical use. He stood outside her apartment door, tapping the blank screen uselessly.

The light mounted on the wall cast a golden halo on the crown of Crane's head. Insects bumbled and chirped in the thickets, creating a low drone. The sun sunk below the horizon, the ethers dyed in dark hues and stippled with white.

Hearing Abbie's ascending footsteps; Crane promptly looked up, entirely infuriated with his purchase. He faced the phone to her like she was supposed to pinpoint the glaring defect.

"There's only _one_ button, Miss Mills." He carped, exasperated. "What the bloody hell am I supposed to do with _one _button?"

She tried to hold in the laugh. Made a valiant effort before a snicker resonated low in her throat.

"I'll show you later, I promise." She snorted, opening her apartment door and stepping inside.

Various molding tomes on witchcraft and Lycanthropy scattered her table. The notes she scrawled onto notebook paper were tucked between various pages. If she was walking anyone else into her apartment, they'd be dogging her with questions about what kind of quarter-life crisis she was going through. Luckily, Crane wasn't this hypothetical person, and he didn't pester her with prying questions she wouldn't answer anyhow.

Instead, he shucked off his coat and laid it over the table. From hidden pockets, he pulled out several oddments. She recognized a vial of muddy liquid, a leaden pouch, an assortment of brittle bones and lastly, but_ certainly_ not least, a surgical scalpel. He drew a rolled parchment from his trousers, unraveling the ribbon that bound it closed. The ends unfurled and she caught a peek of its contents.

Abbie narrowed her eyes at the spread, taking a seat.

"What's all this?"

He didn't pause the preparations, entirely too busy crushing the bones into a fine powder.

"Fortification."

"For what?"

"Do you recall the hellhounds from a couple nights afore?" How could she forget? "The entities are tracking me in the same fashion; by scent. In the lamest term, our scents are…_indiscernible_."

She didn't like the way he said "indiscernible" in a baritone rasp, like there were entire cryptic sentences laced in each syllable.

"The same incident is bound to happen again," he continued. "They'll recognize we're not the same person, but obviously won't hesitate to kill an ally of mine. So, I'd like to ensure your wellbeing when I'm not present."

"That's where this witchy ju-ju comes into play, I'm guessing."

"I can lend you a fraction of my regenerative abilities. If you're harmed, you'll heal."

He took the blade and slit his wrist, letting a stream of red pour into the mortar. She watched his skin seam together, leaving a swelled line that faded each second. He dabbed the trail of blood.

"Do I have to drink that?" she asked, nose scrunched in distaste. She's had enough of drinking the skeevy potions Crane concocted. Once was ample.

Crane grew bashful. His pale eyes flicked from the surgical instrument to her, and she _honestly_ didn't want to know what the expression meant.

"The sigil can only be carried out effectively through lacerations onto your person."

So basically he had to carve the goddamn thing into her flesh. Abbie loathed this paranormal world and its shit laws. It was all macabre and agony, like the sadistic sons of bitches who wrote the rules to magic sought the most excruciating, complicated ways to do it. She'd much rather _bibbidi-bobbidi-boo _this power transfer, or even take that bloody slop to the head.

"I should've warned you ahead of time—we don't have to do this today," he backpedaled.

"No, it's fine," it wasn't; not in the slightest. "Let's just get this over with."

She didn't want to be a damsel in distress. The incubus debacle was enough of that.

"Where would you prefer me to do it?"

It was like getting her first tattoo again, except this time it wasn't a shitty star on her ankle, though both were equally impulsive. Engraving an occult symbol onto conspicuous places like her arms or legs would raise questions. Plus, she imagined the sigil would be wide, considering the ones she's seen so far seemed the size of a football field.

"My back," she answered. Crane stiffened. Abbie pinched the bridge of her nose between her pads.

The shirt had to go.

Crane promptly turned around—always the gentleman—ears and neck rosy. Abbie worked the buttons on her uniform and shrugged it off her shoulders. She gripped the undershirt, heaving it above her head until it joined her uniform. She blew air through her mouth. It was just Crane. He wouldn't try anything perverse.

"You can turn around now." she called. He strode over and dipped the scalpel into the solution, coating it in layers. He crouched behind her. His warm breath skittered across her back, eliciting gooseflesh.

His knuckled brushed her in a ghost of a touch. She jumped, mumbling an apology for her restlessness. If he heard her, he didn't acknowledge it.

Crane cleared his throat. Dread settled like a rock in her stomach.

"Miss Mills, your, uh—"

She instantly understood his dilemma. Goddamn military bras with their thick straps and mile-wide wings. She reached behind to unlatch it, but bumped into Crane's palms. The slurry slipped between her fingers, lukewarm and sticky.

"Do you want me to—"

"Yes, please." She interrupted. Apparently her motor and social skills were bundled somewhere underneath her top on the floor.

His fingers pressed into her skin. A quiet snap followed. The bands fell to either side, tickling her. She held her bra from the front, just in case this day bore more gifts.

He carefully pushed the icy scalpel to her shoulder blade. His other hand held her still at the soft slope of her waist.

"Stop me whenever the pain in unbearable."

Not trusting herself to speak, she nodded numbly.

The blade tore through her skin, provoking a sharp inhale; a pang shot up her spine. The scalpel was so thin she felt her flesh parting in two. Felt each excruciating detail Crane carved into her with precise incisions. Straight lines were unbearable, but worse than that were the minuscule details where the tip struck her nerves directly. Or when the gouge wasn't deep enough, so he'd realign the scalpel and restart the incision.

Pain vibrated through her sweaty, humming body. Expletives flew from her mouth.

He hesitated several times, but she never told him to stop. After eternity, he finished and gingerly drew a wet rag over her back. She unfolded her stiff hands from the chair, grooves embedded in the wood.

"Is it done?" she hissed, voice raw.

"Yes."

Abbie achingly rose and wobbled to the bathroom. She flipped the lights on, its glare burning holes through her pupils. She slammed her eyes shut until it passed. Her muscles screamed and shivered in the aftershocks of being cleaved with a medical instrument.

She felt no different than before. She wasn't surging with newfound vitality or startlingly acute senses. If anything, the opposite occurred.

Abbie spun around, peeking over the hill of her shoulder to see her reflection. Her back was bruised and engorged, but upon further inspection, she could see the changes. Her skin stitched back together before her eyes. The deep lacerations became shallow, then sealed, a dark seam left in its place. The inflammation lowered—not completely gone, but nearly nonexistent—and the lumpy flesh leveled to its usual, smooth planes. Soon, the only remnants of the pseudo-operation were the fine burgundy lines and rings of the sigil.

If she were in to the whole mutilation thing, she'd have guessed it looked kinda' cool.

Clasping her bra together, Abbie headed out to the living room. She tossed her undershirt on, wriggling it down her torso. She took a different seat—who the fuck knew how she was gonna' deal with the blood-stained chair—and faced Crane.

"Thanks." It was all she could manage; she wasn't socially experienced for these anomalous situations.

He firmed his lips.

"We're partners," he said, being the first to label their dynamic. She expected him to elaborate, go into some fervent spiel about the significance of friendship, but he shockingly left it there.

"Now about the Lycans," she segued. Crane came alive at the prospect of talking her ears to smithereens.

Two hours later, their attempt to form a workaround was vain. Even between Crane's extensive knowledge and Abbie's innovative mind, they couldn't detect any loopholes. At least ones that didn't require more necromancy and mind-walking.

"Let's say we do get in the church, what're we gonna' do?" In the off chance they breached that impenetrable hellhole; a plan beyond "break in" would be nice.

"Take and learn what we can, and then destroy it."

Abbie raised her eyebrows.

"I know gun control is slack here in the U.S, but I don't think we can get our hands on _that_ many explosives." Based off Crane's drawing nigh a week ago, the church was colossal. It was something straight out of a cult classic horror.

"Human weapons are obsolete faced to witchcraft. We need to…" he searched for a word. "Fight fire with fire."

"I'm playing the town witch again?"

"Werewolves are only capable of so much magic." he said with a shrug and a half smile.

The promise of performing witchcraft strummed a note within her, resonating throughout her form in a flood of wired nerves. Her throat grew arid, vision distorting.

_Shit._

The ballooning resurfaced with a vengeance. It seized all senses, degenerated her perception until everything was either buzzing, white or somewhere in between. Wraithlike hands wrapped around her lungs and squeezed. A third one wrung her throat, talons biting through muscles.

She thrashed and clawed her neck. Tried to eradicate a figment of her imagination. Tried to peel away incorporeal digits crushing her windpipe by whittling her flesh with her nails.

Her hands forcibly retracted from her body. Everything stopped. She no longer felt she was going to implode, but in its place was a gaping vacuum. The sightlessness and buzzing ended immediately, colors and cognizance coming home from war.

"Good _God_, Abigail!"

She glanced at the hands Crane held away from her. They were coated in blood.

She worked her jaw, but words were difficult then. "W-_what_…Crane…I don't understand—something was _choking _me I-I—"

"There was _nothing_ there Abigail; you and I are the only people here."

She dropped her head. Her shoulders sagged. This was it—she was deranged; completely fucking bonkers because she almost scratched through her jugular veins fighting off an elusive fiend. Her eyes stung and she blinked to dry the tears.

There was a moment of deafening silence. If listened carefully, she could hear his heartbeat.

Crane pulled Abbie in by her wrists, enveloping her with his arms. Her cheeks pressed flush against his warmed coat, she once thought irreversibly tatty, but now fleecy, and her eyes fluttered closed, lashes wet.

It was bittersweet. The validation. The coddling scent. His hand rubbing circles into her back. He didn't seem to care his shirt was soaked, nor did he mind her bloodied fingers curled into the dark fabric, surely to leave stains. He didn't gripe about how she clung to him until she was drowsy and incoherent, instead lifting her and carrying her to her room.

He wasn't bothered by her faith in him, but maybe he should.


	7. Coup de Grâce

**A/N: My phone got jacked recently, so all the 20k+ words I had of outline for this story is gone. Usually I follow the rough draft closely, but now there's no rough draft to go by so it's just ¯\\_(****ツ****)_/¯ for me right now. Moving on, thanks for the support and reviews, y'all. **

**-tla**

***Warning: heavy gore, suicide implication/mentions**

**Note: This chapter is a behemoth (12k+) and was an absolute **_**pain **_**in my ass to write, especially with the holiday season absorbing all my time. To be fair, the next chapter should come out in a week or two, seeing that it's fairly short compared to what I usually crank out. Hell, technically chapter 6, 7 and 8 were supposed to be a part of one chapter, but it didn't really work out that way because I don't have self-control.**

**Note 2: I've got some PMs and such, and some of y'all already have some of the mystery figured out!**

* * *

**_solstice_**

_coup de grâce_

* * *

**_i._**

_Irving's lawn looked better from the last time Abbie remembered. _It was manicured and lush; not a single yellowed blade of grass marred the verdure—a great feat, seeing the temperature took a nosedive. Aptly clipped hedges lined the perimeter of the house. Each edge was near geometrical. She wouldn't be surprised if Frank used a protractor to achieve ninety-degree angles and straight lines. There weren't any flowers to vivify his lawn, but luckily he left the tacky flamingos and distasteful gnomes to his few neighbors.

It was fantastic, considering her last visit rendered it charred and smoldering.

Gone was the stifling heat of summer. Clear skies permitted contentedness, a needed recess between the daily mourning and angst. The sun warmed her skin. Chilled breezes tickled her hair and bit the apples of her cheeks. In the waning month of September, she was glad to announce that autumn finally settled in the town of Sleepy Hollow.

She pressed the doorbell with a gloved finger, tucking her thin scarf around her neck. An acoustic ring resonated throughout the house. Seconds later, the door cracked open, a cautious eye peering out the shadows from the slit. Abbie cocked her head.

"Are you gonna' let me in, or am I supposed to babysit from outside all day?"

With that, the door swung open, prior caution thrown to the wind as Macey flew into her arms. Abbie staggered—by now, she should've readied herself; it's happened several times before—but maintained her balance and wrapped her arms around the junior's lithe form. Abbie patted her back, then lowered Macey so she stood upright.

Macey's thick mane of hair grew wilder every time Abbie visited. Her doe-eyes were wide and searching, fanned by dark lashes. Coupled with nearly invisible freckles dusting her nose and chin, she resembled a wood nymph.

"You're getting far too old to do that. And tall." she scoffed good-naturedly, rubbing her back to ease a nonexistent pain. Macey widened the door so Abbie could lug her suitcase inside, closing it once she crossed the foyer.

Irving's house held a cozy, inviting atmosphere. The walls were coated in warm, matte hues, accentuated by earthenware and potted florae. A variety of candles, all scented distinctively like fall, perched on the thick arms of strategically placed holders. The spruce wood floor reflected images like a mirror, newly waxed and gleaming with ardor.

A wall entirely comprised of certificates and medallions stood prominently at the house's entrance. Several were for Macey's academic achievements, but even more were for excelling in athletics, namely soccer. It made it clear this home housed a child prodigy; a genius in the rough.

Abbie breathed a sigh of relief, her feet and fingers defrosting as she shrugged her thick coat down her arms. She slid off black boots, wiggling her toes in her socks. In a couple minutes, maybe the feeling would return.

"I had no idea Dad let you watch me this weekend," Macey began, leading Abbie away from the entry. "I could've sworn that bitter, old crone called the shots again this weekend."

Abbie rose an eyebrow, barely restraining an amused smile. "'That bitter, old crone?'"

"Mrs. Willison, you know? The crazy grandma that lives down our street. Sits on her porch all day and yells at the mailman. Looks just like—" she scrunched her face and raised a shaking fist. "—this."

"I got the picture."

"So how's it been?" Macey chimed, settling onto the leather couch. Abbie situated herself on the opposite side, propping her back against a firm throw pillow. She slung an arm over the top of the sofa, sinking into the pads. Sunlight poured in from the cracked blinds. Pinstripes of shadows and light painted the rustic living room.

"Stressful. Just work and stuff like that." It was a cursory reply she's practiced over the duration of summer. Once her reclusive nature augmented, that question became the weary intro to every conversation. She's since learned to dodge the random inquisitions through lukewarm responses and disinterested stares. "What about you?"

Macey's lips tautened a fraction. Her shoulders tensed.

"It's been pretty lonely here. My friends don't come over much anymore and my dad practically lives in his office. I can catch him on a weekday if I'm up late enough, so there's that." she smirked, but it was flat and forced. Lacking the signature buoyancy and the giggles that came with it.

Macey's relationship with her dad transcended the mold. The miscommunication and mistrust that characterized adolescence were absent between the two. They were inseparable. Had a profound friendship and understanding of each other that came to life after Irving's divorce. While coping with the death of Corbin, Abbie beheld—for the first time in a _long _while—a functional, loving family, regardless of its small size.

However, with arduous police work and the state of bedlam encompassing Sleepy Hollow, their bond took a hit. Hard.

Abbie pursed her lips together, dark eyes focusing on the junior's round face. She placed a gentle hand on Macey's shoulder and squeezed.

"You know he's trying his hardest, right?" Every day he made the decision between his family and his town; his choice wasn't an easy one.

Macey nodded, but the troubled mien remained. She continued her synopsis with an audible swallow.

"I learned how to use a gun this summer," she said, voice shaky. She swiped her dry lips with her tongue. "I really didn't want to—at all. But Dad wouldn't let up for weeks. He took me to the backwoods every day he could, lined up a buncha' bottles and made me shoot them." She snorted humorlessly. "I'm a terrible shot. I didn't hit a single one because my hands kept shaking the entire time.

"He's given up trying to teach me how to aim, so now he won't let me leave the house without pepper spray and a switchblade. If I don't call in every five minutes, he _completely_ blows a gasket and then I'm grounded for like a week."

"He's just doing his best to protect you," Abbie explained softly. Macey bit her lip, staring into the unlit cobblestone fireplace. "What he does may seem excessive, but going out into the field every day to see what fresh hell popped up on somebody's doorstep…it changes you. Makes you see things differently 'cause the next victim could be someone you love."

"There's just so much going on at once, I don't know what to feelanymore." Macey sighed wearily. She picked at a loose string from her shirt, finding something to do with her hands. "It also doesn't help that my mom wants me to move back to Virginia with her. She's convinced this town is a Hellmouth—I can't really argue with her on that—but she thinks dangling the soccer program over UVA is gonna' get me running back to her. She thinks just because she's living it up in a penthouse with her boyfriend that she's the better parent and knows what's best for me. She doesn't even _know_ me anymore!" She exhaled loudly. "To her, it's like I'm not even a _person_, but something that can be bought. Or like a consolation prize or a last _got'cha _to my dad because she lost the court case." She paused for a couple seconds, then threw her hands up in resignation. "We're five minutes into babysitting and I've already unloaded all my problems on you—let's do something different."

"I gotta' put away my bags first." Abbie grabbed her suitcase and rolled it down the hall. Seeing she used to frequent Irving's house, she knew the layout of the home well; she found the guest room in an instant. She pushed the door open.

The room carried the same earthy theme as the rest of the house. The furniture and paint were comprised of brown, black and beige tones. Nightstands stood on either side of the full bed, a wide window directly across. There was a door to a joint bathroom, which was shared with Macey.

Abbie unpacked her toiletries, leaving the clothes behind since she would be gone by Sunday. She placed her toothbrush and soaps in the bathroom, passing by the mirror and closing the light on her way out.

She stopped dead in her tracks. Turned heel, threw the door open and snapped on the lights. Her reflection stared back at her.

_Holy shit_.

The ashen, lackluster complexion that bedeviled her for months vanished; in its place was bright skin glowing with fervor. The inky rings around her eyes were no more. The premature wrinkles faded into nonexistence. Mouth ajar and eyebrows furrowed, she touched her skin.

It felt as soft as it looked.

Even her hair returned to its original bouncy, lustrous state. She ran her hand through the silken tresses, watching the dark strands part around her fingers like water.

That sigil did one helluva job; too bad it couldn't fix the numbness inside.

She headed back into the living room, eyeing the impressive stack of board games and movies Macey gathered. Macey clasped her hands together.

"You remember when Dad used to invite you to Game Night? You know, before you lit the whole yard on fire and he kicked you out?"

"That was a year ago. It's time for him to let go."

"You know how he is about his lawn." she wiped the dust off the Monopoly board. It—along with the pile of equally dusty games—obviously hadn't been used in a while, signifying the death of great family tradition. She jiggled the Monopoly board. "Welcome back, Abbie."

A wide, genuine smile overtook Abbie's face. "Prepare to get your ass handed to you."

"As _if_!"

While Macey assembled the board on the floor of the living room, Abbie searched the fridge for a snack to fix. It was packed with an assortment of greens, red meats, protein shakes and whichever other protein-heavy foods she couldn't identify. Apparently both Macey and Irving were meatheads.

Surprisingly, Abbie found an unopened bag of pizza rolls in the freezer. She spread the rolls onto a pan and popped them in the oven.

Soon, Abbie sat on the floor, folding her legs underneath her thighs. Macey chose the dog, as usual, and Abbie settled for whichever chip she touched first. Taking on the position as the banker, Macey handed Abbie the vibrant money. The junior rolled the dice; they clicked and clattered until it finally stopped on a pair of pathetic snake eyes. Abbie rolled with better fortune, picking up her piece from GO and starting the game.

An hour later, Abbie was almost sure Macey was stealing money from the bank. All her investment decisions were god awful—the hotel on _Baltic Avenue _was a prime example—yet she had a healthy supply of cash. However, Abbie held her tongue.

It was a Hallmark moment. There was a pair of toothy grins on their faces. Occasionally the room would suffuse with peals of laughter; the shrill, loud cackling from Macey and the shoulder-shaking, hearty titter from Abbie. Warmth permeated in her chest as she savored the gaiety that didn't seem to exist anywhere outside of these walls.

A series of chimes rung from her phone, effectively slicing through the airy respite. She pulled the device from her pocket, checking the screen. It was from Crane and it was a FaceTime nonetheless. If this was the only way he planned on communicating, she shouldn't have showed him how to use it.

"Gotta' take this." Abbie said, standing up. She did the "I'm watching you" sign to Macey, who shrugged and smirked, confirming that she was _indeed_ laundering money from the bank.

_Little weasel._

Abbie stepped outside. The cold air chilled her face and neck.

She hadn't talked to Crane since the morning fiasco two days before. He'd taken vigil in her room while she slept—plausibly not trusting her alone—only to witness her screaming into consciousness like something from a horror movie.

It was a thoroughly mortifying and disturbing experience for both, yet they avoided conversation about her ailment. Her obvious discomfort thwarted any discussion about it, and Crane—not wanting to infringe despite it clearly eating him away—left it at that. Instead, Abbie refocused the attention to the plethora of absent evidence in her department; the morgue debacle was one of many omitted reports and data. Upon further reflection, numerous samples of lycan DNA was shipped to forensics, yet never returned or was mentioned again.

Someone was working behind the scenes, concealing the damning evidence of entities from the public eye. Neither Crane nor Abbie could identify the friend—or foe, seeing their luck—but considering their endeavors have been sloppy at best, they shouldn't look a gift horse in the mouth.

In time, they'd discover who this person was. Now, however, they had much bigger problems.

Abbie leaned against the outside wall, answering the call. Her eyebrows shot up, eyeing Crane's disheveled state. His hair was astray, lip busted and an angry line marred his forehead, but his miffed expression told he was fine.

"What the hell happened?"

_"The cavalry has arrived in Sleepy Hollow." _Crane groused. His lips tugged down in distaste, flicking dirt and grass off his shoulder. _"Every entity unknown to man has besieged the city."_

"Which son of a bitch got the drop on you?" Although she hadn't seen Crane fight, she figured he didn't lug that giant sword around unless he knew how to use it.

He snorted. _"I was deceived by a skin walker posed as a child, led into an alleyway then stabbed through the lung like a complete _twit_ …the vile brat. And to think skin walkers are my _brethren_—"_

"The point, Crane."

He snapped his mouth shut and respired. _"This town has turned into an entity cesspool overnight; bloodshed is imminent. I know you are caretaking your Captain's daughter for the weekend, so to ensure the child's and your safety, his house needs to be fortified with seals of protection. I have several written—"_ He waveringly held a sheet of paper to the camera. Several symbols were scrawled onto the beige parchment. _"—here! It's a lot to write down or memorize but—"_

She held down power and home button.

"Done."

Crane let the paper fall from the camera, revealing a bemused expression.

_"You've memorized the entire sheet already?"_

"I took a screenshot."

_"…a what?"_

"Never mind." She pursed her lips together, thinking of the influx of evil settling in this already harrowed town. "I really appreciate all this, but not everyone has a master occultist handing them spells to protect themselves tonight. Who's to stop your fan club from taking a bite outta' the locals?"

_"'Tis the reason I haven't returned to Phillipstown, Miss Mills. Abraham and I have taken it upon ourselves to be the guardians of Sleepy Hollow 'til I can maintain the situation."_

Abraham must've been the name of the "old accomplice" he mentioned two days ago. Crane was fairly vague—as he was about everything—regarding said companion, but apparently the odd duo became an even odder trio.

"If that's all, then I guess this is goodbye."

Crane flashed a charming smile, the corners of his eyes crinkling.

_"Godspeed."_

She tucked her phone into her back pocket, stepping into Irving's house. She eyed Macey, approaching the living room with her arms folded. She took a seat on the ground, recounting the sad few bills left; she wouldn't put it beyond Macey to nick a few while she took a call.

"_Sooo,_" Macey drawled in a sugary tone. She tucked her hands underneath her chin, batting her eyelashes. "Who's this 'Crane' guy?"

Of course, she saw her screen.

"He's my friend…ish." 'Friend' wasn't the right word; what they had was born from desperation, moral obligations and a possible guilt-trip on Crane's part. The first time they held a real conversation, he gave her an impossible ultimatum that damned her in either route. She searched for the word Crane used before. "He's my partner."

"Are you guys like bowling buddies, or—ya' know—the _other _kind of buddies?"

"How 'bout you mind your business and go to jail like Chance told you to?"

Macey grunted and threw her hands up, resigning.

Three hours later, Macey was the crowned champion. All that laundering and houses on _Boardwalk _paid off at the end. Instead of delving into another round, they took a recess and ordered in Thai food. Macey got her usual dish; Abbie tried out whichever special they had. For twenty minutes, they sat at the dinner table and filled the silence with mindless chatter.

"They're planning a funeral for him." Macey said abruptly. Her words cut through the lull of the conversation like a honed knife. Abbie stopped chewing her cabbage, the vegetable falling from the roof of her mouth to her tongue. The junior's expression was dark, eyes disengaged and staring into nothingness; like she couldn't comprehend her surroundings beyond what transpired in her head.

The shift in ambiance was sudden. All the liveliness and merriment she was granted seconds ago bled away, returning to the wonted bleak, deadened tone.

It took Abbie a second to figure out who "they" and "him" were, but she quickly pieced it together. It was the son of Johnathan Raymond—one of the first murdered victims in the case—Nathaniel Baggins, who'd gone missing several months ago.

"But it's _really _stupid. I mean, they're supposed to be his family—you don't just give up like that! If you can't find him, you look _harder_ damn it!" She slammed her fist on the table, rattling the dishware.

Abbie chocked down the soggy vegetables. It tasted like cotton in her mouth; her appetite died.

"Our police and the FBI are trying our hardest to find Nathan—him and everyone else that went missing here." She spoke slowly like she spoke to an infant. Tried to ameliorate the situation through the words she repeated like a mantra; the same ones she used for every beleaguered parent plowing through police station demanding answers she couldn't provide them. Abbie stared Macey in the eye, resting her hand over Macey's trembling one. "He will be found."

Every time those words left her lips, she furthered her damnation—she was a liar. A filthy fucking liar of the worst brand.

But said words pacified Macey, who nodded feverishly. Who smiled widely with light in her eyes while Abbie could scarcely move, let alone breathe.

The conversations then on were wholly fixated on Nathanial Baggins, bringing a disconcerting element to the dinner table. The way she spoke gradually transmuted from fond memories until she talked as if he was physically there. Sitting at the dinner table in the vacant seat beside hers. Sharing the same meal with him, seeing Macey sectioned off a portion of her coconut rice and didn't touch it again. She said it was his favorite.

It became glaringly obvious that Macey didn't properly heal from this trauma.

The weather went to shit at the drop of a hat. The sky melded from a clear, bright plane to a churning cyclone as the day progressed. Any remaining traces of bliss vanished, driven away by the ominous thunder and dense clouds primed to hail until the end of days. The clock only struck seven, but the sky was draped in a curtain of black. The wind made despondent howls, banging on the window panes with disembodied fists.

Abbie swallowed thickly, roaming around in the gloom that consumed the house. The only source of light was the candles, all courtesy to Macey's ingenious plan to be wholly immersed in whichever horror film she chose to watch. The flames danced and flickered on their wicks; created orbs of light in an otherwise black house.

The ambience was disconcerting; every quickening breath suspended in silence. This entire scene was familiar. It roused the shadow of a memory from the depths of her mind, but she couldn't place it. Couldn't dredge it forth because it was probably buried beneath layers of dissociative amnesia.

She clutched the cup of virgin oil in her hands, dipped a single finger in the liquid and proceeded to scrawl the sigils into discreet places. She drew a few around the windows, two on the door, another underneath the welcome mat and even more underneath the windowsills. She did so until the well of oil ran dry. The night was upon them and they needed all the protection they could get.

Wiping her slick finger on her jeans, Abbie headed towards the living room. Macey sat on the floor, face illuminated by the blue light of the flat screen. She craned her neck to see the television resting above the fireplace, fiddling with the input settings.

Abbie settled next to her, wringing her hands in her lap.

"So we've got two options." Macey said. She held up two classic horrors with dated covers. The titles read _Mark of the Devil_ and _Psycho_. "I've seen them both already, so I don't care which one we watch," She thrust _Psycho _in Abbie's face, the casing obscuring her view. "But this one has 1960s John Gavin in it, so I guess that's a plus."

Abbie shrugged, putting up a grin that hopefully didn't convey the unease she felt.

"Then _Psycho_ it is."

Macey pushed the tape in the DVR; the machine whined from age and disuse. They propped themselves against the sofa. Macey was wrapped to the ear in a thick, fleecy blanket while Abbie donned a long robe, a t-shirt and a pair of cotton shorts. The theatrical, discordant violins from the intro filled her ears.

Thunder shook the foundation of the earth; lightning split the sky, casting—for only a fleeting fraction of a second—protracted shadows that looked oddly humanlike. The windowpanes continued to rattle; the branches outside drumming the glass like gnarled fingernails, begging to be let in.

_Tap. Tap. Tap._

Unneeded to say, Abbie hated storms.

Three movies in and Macey was out like a busted light. She snored deeply, arms and legs sprawled on the sofa. Abbie stood and stretched. She attempted to shake Macey awake—sleeping on the couch would only mean rising the next morning with aching shoulders—but the junior refused to budge.

"No, no, no…" Macey yawned, words sluggish and slurred. She lazily batted away Abbie's hand. "I'm still watching this."

The movie's been at the title screen for the past half hour. Abbie threw her hands up in defeat.

Abbie slid into Macey's room, grabbed her beloved pillow—the fuzzy one with her name stitched on it—and tossed it her way. Macey mumbled something akin to a thank you, falling asleep the next instant.

Since it turned midnight, Abbie's been texting Crane, trying to get a hold on the town's state. He and his cagy accomplice have been scouring Sleepy Hollow all night, laying waste to the hordes of entities before they could strike. Drawing all the attention to himself so they wouldn't mistake their scents and hunt her down instead. His replies got progressively slower as the night developed; his last response was an hour ago.

Abbie headed to her quarters and trudged through her nightly routine. Once she finished, she dug through her bag, hand bumping into the .22 she brought lest things got hairy, and retrieved Guleilmus Raphe's logbook. Abbie settled in the cotton sheets, cracking open the timeworn journal.

_JUNE 17__TH__, 1688_

_After more than twenty years of searching, I have finally discovered something resembling an antidote. I've pursued countless red herrings to each corner of the earth, but I believe I've actually found the _real _one. An actual end to Lycanthropy._ _It is told to do what lunar essence could never—make me human _forever_. It could be found in Saint Pierre et Miquelon in its easternmost parish. On the morrow, I will board my umpteenth voyage across the seas; hopefully, it will be my last._

_—GR_

_JUNE 23__th__, 1688_

_I've chanced others who've met the same fate as I. Unfailingly, everyone sought the same thing—a cure. It was a common objective amongst our harrowed breed of Lycanthropes._

_ In a measly five days abroad, I and my shipmates spotted a plethora of boats dotting the horizon line. From grandeur ships to rafts, beasts from all walks of life have come to witness this cure at work. I have faith in it._

_JUNE 24__th__, 1688_

_Becoming _this_ is the reason I've lost myself, which is inarguably the most aching aspect of being a "werewulf." I am not the same kindly man who worked in a printing press; I've become a savage. I've become depraved, succumbing to the innate needs of said werewulf._

_ I'll do anything for human flesh. I'll do anything for a sliver of land under the moon._

_Lunar essence was the supposed solution for that craving, but it wasn't. Instead of succumbing to the baser instincts of a werewulf, I yield to the baser instincts of man._

_I'll do anything for food. I'll do anything for money. I'll do anything for sex. I cannot count how many thoughtless, obscene ruts I've had in dark passageways with homely harlots. Or if no bordello was open, how many times I've met my release by my hand._

_It's a shameful way to live, having to choose between two evils; to pick your poison every day as if choosing breeches. But it ends. I've heard the wonders of the cure. I've never witnessed it with my eyes, but it's been whispered anxiously from one ear to another in the crowd of fiends._

_—GR_

Abbie stretched her arms above her head, lids growing heavy. She placed the book aside and fluffed her pillow. Soon, oblivion took her.

**_ii._**

_Abbie pedaled slowly down the twisted road; the streamers on the handlebars tickled her palms as she rode. The streetlights cast weak circles of light on the asphalt, indicating it was long since time for her to return home._

_She was out with Sister Mary's boys, riding bikes up and down the boulevard. Mary's sons were three years her senior; old enough to be outside without their mother hounding them for it. But Joseph and Ezekiel took off in an impromptu race several streets over and left her in the dust. Left her to find her way home alone, since they knew little about responsibility._

_Mama was gonna' be pissed like always. Without doubt, Abbie would be sporting new bruises tomorrow, seeing she was supposed to be on her knees praying from the moment she got from school to before she went to sleep. It was like clockwork, every single day for the past five years. Who could fault her for taking a needed break?_

_Swatting mosquitos out the air, Abbie came to a halt in front of a house; a wooden, moldering structure that unceasingly warbled Johnny Cash through a broken radio. The one where the stench of cigarettes and tobacco was so heavy it wafted down the street and saturated the air. The house every mother told their brown and black children to avoid, 'cause no one in their right mind should be near that Confederate-flag-toting racist._

_Too many kids wound up missing 'round this neighborhood. Everyone had their fingers pointed at him—the "sad sack of shit who lost his wife 'n kid from beating on'em too many times," if she recalled what Sister Mary said correctly. The cops, of course, chalked the disappearances up to gang activity. 'Didn't take the time out of their day to truly investigate 'cause they said there was no hope in these parts of the town._

_The man sat on his rocking chair, as usual, a bottle of Jack clutched in hand and a cigarette hanging from his lip. His black eyes bored into hers. A lazy grin followed seconds later. He curled his finger at her, beckoning her towards him in a slow motion._

_"Abigail," How did he know her name? "C'mere."_

_Her heart slammed against her ribcage. She hopped back on her bike, made to peddle away as if all of Hell nipped at her heels, but the bike skid to a sudden stop. She flung from her saddle and over the handles. Slid against the road until her hands and knees were raw and ruddy._

_After being beaten within every inch of her life before, the wounds from her latest mishap didn't affect her as much as they were meant to. She didn't cry when blood gushed down her limbs from the glass and asphalt stuck in her skin. Instead, she shakily rose and fruitlessly picked at the bits._

_She accusingly cut eyes at her bike. It made no sense for it to stop like that; there was nothing in its way._

_"Abigail," he said again, voice rougher. Once more, he called for her with his crooked finger. His eyes glinted red. "C'mere."_

_She stood still for a full minute, staring back at him. She watched him pull the bottle from his mouth, alternating between drinking and taking a drag of his cigarette. Tapping his radio back to life when the music turned to static. Having more than enough of this, Abbie turned around at headed back to her discarded bike._

_Or at least, she tried to, but she stood stiff, fixed in the same position._

_She attempted to twitch a finger on her own accord. Tried to blink or wiggle a toe or _scream,_ but damn it she couldn't. Panic swelled in her chest. Dread settled in her stomach like a stone in a current._

_A car's engine droned down the street, growing louder as it approached her. The vehicle slowed behind her, warmth from the exhaust heating her legs and kicking up her skirt. A low whine from a window rolling down sounded, sparking a flare of hope in her nerve-wracked body._

_"Ain't you Lori's lil' girl?" a stern, male voice questioned. She recognized him as the deacon, Jeffrey, from her church. He was a senile old man who spent more time gossiping than he did spreading the "word of God." "Jennifer, ain't it? No, no…Ageth—Abigail!" he shouted, snapping his finger at his coup. "What'chu still doing out here, young lady? Don't you know what time it is?"_

_Her body didn't move, still caught in an involuntary staring match with the bigot in the rocking chair._

_Jeffrey's breath hitched. "Why are you bleeding all over? You okay, Abigail? Did that man do this to you?" he added in a lower whisper, eyes bouncing from her hands to the house._

_For the first time in several minutes, Abbie moved. She turned on her heel and faced the deacon, a grin that wasn't her own plastered on her face._

_"I'm okay. Just fell off my bike, that's all."_

God, help me! Please!

_Jeffrey bit his lip, casting one last glance at the man behind her. "You sure? I can drive you right home if you want; you know how your mama is…"_

_Her smile widened._

_"It's fine." Her bloodied hand rose and waved the deacon goodbye. He rolled his window up, her mirthful reflection glinting at her as the car became a speck at the end of the street._

No, no, no, **no**! Come back—**come back**!

_He didn't. If Abbie was capable of crying in that very moment, she'd be a sobbing, wailing heap on the floor._

_The man summoned her for the third time. And it was in this third try that she came, limping up the rickety stairs and onto his porch. She stopped beside him, her knee brushing against his jean-clad legs. He wore a soiled wife-beater with a worn flannel shirt drooping off his shoulders. He stank of booze, sweat and a trace of sulfur. His face was unshaven and rough._

_He stood up, pushing open the creaky door to his house. It was dark, nearly impossible to see. He stepped fully inside, reaching his hand out from the shadows, fingers bent and marred with ghastly scars. His eyes glinted red again._

_"C'mon. Ain't no need to be shy."_

_She placed her hand in his, and he drew her into the darkness._

**_iii._**

A roar tore through Abbie's throat; her hollow, despondent wail filled the four corners of the room. Her back bowed, fingers twisted in the sheets. Mouth and eyes wide and blank as her voice dwindled to an inaudible rasp. Until her labored chokes took its place in the dead of the house.

The ballooning sensation returned with an unshakeable vengeance. Her skin felt tight and enflamed, burning almost. Like her body was a kiln and she was combusting from the outside in.

She was going to explode or fall apart. Or both.

Something dripped on her upper lip. Her breathing shallowed. She raised a trembling hand to the drop, catching it before it could trickle down her lips. It was too thick, too coppery, too sticky to be the tears and sweat slicking her face.

_Shit!_

Abbie scrambled off the bed, made a pathetic attempt to run, but her legs were stiff and unsteady; unfit to stand. Her knees buckled and she fell unceremoniously to the ground, slamming her head against the dresser's edge. The lamp rattled, teetered and then crashed beside her. She groaned and rolled over, squeezing her eyes shut to cope with the searing pain.

Her stomach lurched. That was all warning she needed before crawling to the bathroom. Halfway in, her hand flew over her mouth, but vomit surged up her throat, spewing from the cracks of her fingers and dotting the floor. She patted the tiles with one hand, the other still firmly held in place to block the flow, searching for the toilet's base in the impenetrable gloom. Once found, she collapsed before it, upper body draped flaccidly over the seat. She retched and gagged, clenching the sides of the bowl like a lifeline. Her body tremored as she spent eons purging the contents of her stomach.

She stayed in the same position for long minutes, kneeled like she was praying through the saliva and bile passing from her lips. She could barely muster the energy to stand when she finished, but she and the mess befouling the floor needed cleaning immediately. She stumbled to the sink, turning the faucet with her wrist, and rinsed her hands. She scrubbed them the best she could without soap—it was somewhere enshrouded in the dark—and shook them dry. Abbie palmed the wall for the switch and flipped it on.

There was blood everywhere.

Surrounding the sink, swamping the toilet, stamped across the floor in smeared handprints. It blanketed her tongue. Bedaubed her mouth. Crusted the ring of her nostrils.

She stepped back, a cry lodged in her throat. Why was there so much _blood_?

Abbie screwed her lids shut, the light too harsh and white for her to _think_. It felt like someone gouged her eyes out with a rusted spoon. Or they threw a vat of acid in them and it corroded away her sclera. She forced her eyes open through the tears hazing her vision. Nofucking_ wonder_ they throbbed—they were black. Pure black with engorged veins fanning them like hooked talons.

As if covering her eyes would obstruct object permanence, Abbie—out of sensible notions—childishly buried her face in her hands.

There were long beats yawning silence. The tempest outside was only white noise against the deafening stillness. Here, in the glum confinements of the bathroom, time existed in a vacuum; the few minutes she spent with her head in her palms a compilation fragmented cognizance.

Her eyes slowly cracked open. All of it was gone.

Abbie pried her lids apart, rolling her eyes around in their sockets to check for a trace of hidden blackness, but her search was futile. She studied the beds of her fingernails for caked blood. Spit into the sink to locate any red strains in her saliva, considering at least a liter of blood came shooting up her esophagus. Like everything else, it wasn't there.

None of it was real.

She fisted her hair. She punched the wall. She kicked and screamed and thrashed about in a fit of hysteria and unbidden rage. And when it was all gone—that pent _loathing_, _frustration_, and _anguish_—she was left void with the remnants of grief weighing in the emptiness. Abbie rested her head against the wall, making a slow descent as she crumpled to the floor.

She was fucking insane, but she should've known her time was due.

Her dad suffered from dementia and hung himself on the tree in their backyard, leaving a swinging corpse she would come home to find after her first day of kindergarten. Her mom was schizophrenic, murdered and dismembered the man she dreamt about, then was sent to a hospital for the criminally insane after an extensive _cause célèbre_. Abbie had PTSD and amnesia, and now the lacunas in her childhood flooded back to her through night terrors.

Her entire life was public information, all thanks to her mother's high-profile case. Her suffering was spun into news stories, cranking out millions of dollars to networks who wouldn't pay her a dime. The media was caught between demonizing and romanticizing her experience, so they played both angles until everyone had a muddled depiction of who Grace Abigail Mills was.

_Daughter of a homicidal psycho. Runaway problem child. Jailbird. Junkie._

It only made sense she wanted to the few aspects of life belonging to her a secret. Why she didn't want her issues discussed, because that's all everyone did throughout her adolescence.

Abbie unfolded herself from the ground and shakily exited the bathroom. The hush in the house was thick and unnerving. Abbie curled her hand into a tight fist; the skin on her neck puckered with goosebumps.

Abbie gnawed her lip, her reputable foresight flaring up through a prickle in her stomach. Since she found that slipper in the dense Westchester County woods, this "gut feeling" hadn't failed her once; she learned to trust it. And then, it told her that someplace amidst the calm of Irving's home, there was a menace. Without hesitation, Abbie snatched her gun from her suitcase. She held it tightly between her calloused pads, stalking into the hallway with acquired furtiveness. Her hand darted out and flipped the light switch, but to her utter chagrin, it did nothing. The power must've short-circuited. She slipped back into the room, using her phone's dim flashlight instead.

Abbie's steps were light. Her ears attuned to the slightest noises. She listened for a whisper, a rustle, or a low groan in the wooden floorboards, but all she sensed was the muted susurrating from the storm outside. Her stuttering breath expelling from strangled lungs. The sporadic drumming of the branch on the window pane, sounding too much like her ascending heartbeat.

_Tap-tap-tap. Tap. Tap-tap._

Lightning struck as she turned the corner, washing the house in white. Thunder resounded. Made a tremor that was probably felt across Westchester.

She passed Macey's room. The door was ajar. She poked her head inside the room and, once she confirmed its vacancy, pulled out. The living room was hardly any different. Everything from that day—or likely yesterday, seeing she always arose at some ungodly time because of her nightmares—was in the place they left it in. Stacks of board games amassed on the table, empty popcorn bags—courtesy to Macey—gathered in a corner of the sofa and a half-drunken water bottle laid on its side. The DVR was paused on the iconic head-spinning scene from _The Exorcist_, meaning at some point Macey reawakened to start a new movie. Abbie flicked her eyes to the mound of comforters strewn on the couch.

Her chest tightened. Macey wasn't there.

She's seen this scene too many times before.

"_Macey_!" She raced to the entrance of the house, eyeing the partially cracked door. Abbie threw it fully open and rushed outside. Hail, wind, and thunder roared around her. Her shouts were lost to the sea of rain.

She fumbled her phone before dialing Crane. She gripped her gun as she pressed the phone to ear, pacing under the porch's awning. Seconds later, she was met with a whirring dial tone; curses flew from her mouth. She called the station, demanding backup in hard, imposing shout because _god damn it _if they didn't get here fast enough, Macey was as good as dead.

She abandoned her cell in the house and charged headfirst into the tempest. Lumps of hail struck her skull. The droplets felt like ice drenching her body and the gales lashed her cheeks and legs like a switch.

Her bare feet sunk in the sodden grass. She trudged across Irving's flooded yard, down the driveway and into the street littered with ice and brushwood. Her chest heaved, mouth parted as she sucked in a lungful of stinging, cold air.

The streetlights did fuck all in the squall. Her surroundings were immersed in a scratchy brume of white, her sense of direction decimated because of it. Abbie swept her hair out her face, shouting Macey's name. Her distressed call didn't resound more than a few yards. She ran wherever her feet carried her. Minutes ticked by, each session of sixty-seconds feeling like a series of lifetimes. Her feet were raw and stinging. Her throat didn't fare any better. Nonetheless, Abbie continued to lope down roads, hands cupped around her mouth as she yelled into the night.

Just as she was about to backtrack and try a different route, light—that didn't originate from the ethers—flashed in her peripheral. She headed in its direction with renewed hope. A dark figure turned around as she drew near.

"Macey!" Abbie exhaled, grasping the teen by her narrow shoulders and drawing her into a warming hug; she held her tightly and released a shuddering breath. Abbie soon pulled away and shook her, anger sweeping over like a tide. "What the hell are you doing?! You scared the _shit _outta' me—don't you know how damn dangerous it is out here?" The protection sigils she drew meant naught outside the house. And right now—somewhere in the middle of a fairly vacant community, thirty full minutes away from the precinct—they were susceptible to any bullshit the universe dished out.

Macey brushed her sopping curls back, a bright smile plastered on her face. With twinkling eyes, Macey shook her head as if she understood something Abbie couldn't.

"I _found _him, Abbie." she shouted over the rain. "God, Abbie, I _found him_." Macey rattled on, her frenetic rambling soon falling on deaf ears. Abbie's eyebrows pinched together, but she quickly found "him" over Macey's shoulder and a few feet behind.

Her heart dropped to her stomach.

She got an eyeful of naked, sallow skin botched with scratches and discolorations. His face was enflamed from rashes, florid rings circling eyes with wide pupils. He stood in an ungainly stance, shoulders hunched, legs apart and arms limp at his sides. He gave Abbie an abstracted stare, head lolling to the side.

_God fucking damn it._

Abbie whipped out her gun and aimed, switching the safety off. Macey gasped and threw herself in front of Nate.

"No, _no_—A-Abbie stop! This is _Nate_, remember? My best friend!" She pointed reprovingly at Abbie with her flashlight. "Y-you said that you were going find him, but now you're trying to _shoot _him?!"

_"_Macey, move out the _fucking way_!" Abbie's voice was so punitive and biting, Macey's position faltered. That's all a markswoman like Abbie needed. She fired the gun once; the first bullet penetrated his sternum. She curled her finger around the trigger, preparing the next shot to land between his eyes.

The world shifted on its axis.

There was a trice of weightlessness—was she _flying_?—then a pain so ferocious and hot it felt like she was being branded. Abbie's limp form jounced and rolled against the uneven pavement, ending the long tumble with a sickening _crack _from her skull. She sprawled on the ground, disoriented and quasi-conscious.

Abbie apprehended several things at once then. She realized first that there was an acute ringing in her ears. That she was blinded, but her vision was gradually recovering. That her head felt like it'd been cleaved. But the last one she didn't comprehend till several seconds later. Till she attempted to sit upright and she realized all of her wasn't where it was supposed to be.

There was a certain surrealism about holding your intestines in place that could distort one's perception of reality for a long time. Something about the feel—or the fetor, maybe—of being disemboweled that could drive one into a paroxysm of delirium. Something about watching your organs spasm and pump while they toiled _outside of you_ could be the push needed to send one off the deep-end.

Images of the festering bodies she's seen in the woods, cavities swarming with ants, seized her thoughts.

Bile rose in her throat. Although there was blood in her vomit, it gladly remained just that.

A scream pierced the droning storm. Macey sprinted as fast as she could, legs and arms thrusting in a blur, but it wasn't nearly enough. She was hurled like a ragdoll. Her back wrapped around the streetlight. After that, she didn't make a sound.

Abbie couldn't scream. Couldn't do anything but choke for air and thrash in agony, hoping her wounds would seam fast enough.

She blinked hard, praying—for the first time in a long time—that her sight deceived her and she saw double. Alas, she wasn't and her entreaty was vain.

The depictions in the olden tombs weren't accurate enough. Weren't sufficient portrayals for this new breed of lupine abominations.

According to the monographs of occult evolutionists, the disparity between lycans and werewolves was how the wolf and human unified. For werewolves, they inhabited the same vessel, but not mind; they could alternate from wolf to human through an odious transformation. Lycans, on the other hand, were a complete fusion of wolf and man—mentally and physically.

The latter aspect became glaringly obvious, staring into the malformed face of a miscreation.

Abbie dragged herself onto her elbows, her realigning organs shifting in the gaping wound. Her head pounded and she ground her teeth to her lip to stifle a shriek. The newcomer—a behemoth compared to Nate, even after his skin pared and birthed a horror—tromped in her direction. Its steps were sluggish and heavy, but it hovered over her in a heartbeat, her trampled body caged between its thick limbs. Hot saliva seeped from bars of teeth and slathered her neck. Its cumbersome head rocked side to side—probably curious why she bore no resemblance to Crane—before opening its maw so wide the back of its throat was in clear view. Instead of a tonsil, there was a skinned human face welded where the esophagus should be, its own mouth parted and ravenous for flesh—_her _flesh.

An entire block of streetlights burst, dragging the neighborhood in utter darkness.

It was then that Abbie had an epiphany: what was she fighting for? She had virtually no family or friends. She lost her fucking mind. The few good things she had left was bound to leave or die; today was just a sample for the rest of life.

It could end right now.

A portion of her pleaded against it, crying _"You're better than this; you're Lieutenant Abigail Mills! You're a survivor! An adapter! The one who never gives up!" _But she was a hollow mimicry of _that _woman. Because _that _woman never believed in the supernatural. _That_ woman never was hunted by hellhounds and incubi. _That _woman never was dragged through the streets, mutilated and eviscerated in one fell swoop.

Abbie shut her eyes, breathing coming to a stop as she awaited the deathblow.

It never came.

The looming presence disappeared. She was lifted into a pair of arms. Her face was buried in a familiar, consuming warmth. The smell of sandalwood and soil flooded her nostrils.

Crane gingerly held her—his grasp firm and secure, but possessing a gentleness foreign to werewolves—kicking open the door to a vacant house. Mild, stale air, smelling of paint and new wood, tickled her face. He propped her against the wall, fingers trembling as he swept her sopping hair behind her ear. He cradled the sides of her face between his palms. Brushed her cold lips with a trembling thumb.

His distraught touches felt burning on her chilled, wet skin.

Her intestines found its place, the bleeding ceased and her entire torso was numb, but there was still a gaping wound. Patches of her skin burned from skidding down the asphalt, her cranium was likely fissured, but by the miracle of witchcraft, these wounds would heal. But for now, they were fresh, raw and excruciating.

"I-I should've arrived sooner." he hissed, more to himself than her. A jumble of words left his mouth in a bout of anger. A lot of them she didn't catch; he spoke too fast for her dazed state to comprehend. Nevertheless, one thing was clear: he was absolutely torn. He gaped at the blood staining his palms, mien twisted in horror, dolor and an undercurrent of vacillation. His pale depths welled with unshed tears. Hands fluttering at his sides because he didn't know what to do with them. "God, Abigail I—"

With all the strength she could gather, she fisted the lapels of his coat and drew him closer. She didn't want to hear any of it; she had only one focus in mind.

"Macey," she rasped, voice barely audible. "Where's Macey?"

"The girl—yes, the girl." He nodded restlessly, glad to be tasked with something. "I-I'll get her."

He came back seconds later with Macey, laying her beside Abbie. He removed his sword, then shucked off his coat, throwing it over the junior. It was wet, but it was very warm. That girl needed heat like she needed air right then.

Abbie looked him the eye, throat too raw and constricted to speak.

_Is she…?_

"She's still alive, but barely. Her heartbeat is frail and her spine is…" he trailed off. "She's alive." He repeated, trying his best to sound composed. She watched him leave the house in a flurry, his sword fisted in a white-knuckled grip.

She studied Macey's limp, hardly breathing form. Just yesterday morning, this girl was teeming with life, and now she was on the cusp of death. Abbie couldn't decide if her presence was damning or the reason Macey remained human, not missing or lost to the list of hundreds that _have_. Because even in this battered state, Macey was the anomaly. She was the zero-point-however-many percent of adolescents who were kidnapped—if even for a couple minutes—who made it back.

Abbie stroked Macey's sodden curls, bottom lip quivering. Officers were supposed to apply first aid, but Macey's body was distended from internal bleeding. There was nothing she could do to help that.

A battle raged outside. A grunt here. A snarl there. Roaring that was none too discreet. A loud, high-pitched _yip-yip-yip _from a wounded lycan. Or werewolf even, considering Crane looked on the verge of impulse turning when he left. A resonate booming, so forceful it could rival the thunder, followed. Soon after, the creaking, whining groan of a large tree descending.

The skirmish ended soon enough. It concluded with a caterwauling that could wake up the entire town of Sleepy Hollow. In the background, she could hear a low _yip-yip-yip_ from outside. It was tearful, and if lycans were capable of emotions outside of wrathful and ravenous, terrified.

Past the raining and thundering, she barely picked up the telltale sound of arguing. She craned her neck and peeked above the window sill, squinting to catch flashes of images from the lightning and the headlight's of Crane's car. Their voices were muffled, but the dispute was ardent enough she could make out the words.

There was nothing left of Nate. The entire road and surrounding houses were destroyed. There were grooves in the asphalt that wasn't there before. Smoldering wood and cauterized limbs dotting the ground. The enormous tree she heard earlier crashed down the middle of a neighboring house, creating a blockade in the street.

Crane grabbed his sword and stalked toward the remaining Lycan, the blonde one. Its arms were nothing but charred nubs, its legs grotesque stumps. But Crane looked like he'd kill anything short of an infant in his way—to hell if the lycan was detained and aggrieved.

Abraham puffed out his chest, taking a step forward. He was visibly taut and his firm stance conveyed intractability.

"What the hell are you doing, Ichabod?"

"She—" Crane's voice caught in a snarl, sounding too animalistic and guttural to be the well-mannered Englishman she knew. "_She_ cannot live. Her life ends now."

"_She _is the closest thing we have to a lead—the only plausible chance at breaching the church!" he shoved Crane. "She _lives _as long as she is useful." They were face-to-face, nearly brushing each other in a way that was too primal and cutthroat to end in a friendly settlement.

"I wouldn't give a damn if we had to scour every grimoire on _the face of the Earth_ to break in! That child is on the verge of death, Abigail was nearly killed—_God forbid _I was a second late otherwise, she would've _died_!"

"And whose **_fucking_**fault is _that_?!" his roar was conclusive and harsh. There was a fraught beat of silence for him to get his bearings. He jabbed his finger into Crane's sternum. "I will _not_ allow you to compromise us because _you_ cannot controlyourself."

With that, Abraham lugged the lycan over his shoulder effortlessly and disappeared in the strengthening haze of rain.

Crane clambered back into the empty building, slamming the door shut behind him. He lost his footing on the slick tile entrance of the house. He held the wall for support before taking another step, then all but fell to the spot next to Abbie. Crane ran his hands through the saturated clumps of hair and mud. His face was flushed, cheeks red and bags circled his eyes.

His shirt—which was usually tucked and seemingly always iron-pressed—was dirty and torn to shreds. She caught a glimpse of sinewy muscles, a new set of wounds and dilated blood. There was an odd branding of the words _metere quod seminas_ along his side. It was pink and puffy—she had the oddest urge to trace the letters with her fingertips. That phrase would stick with her.

It was when he was most exhausted—lacking that preternatural, feline grace—that he looked most human. He didn't feign indifference and attempt to maintain his poise, nor did he try to hide how worn—emotionally and physically—he was after a full day of staving off evil. He was unabashedly fatigued.

Without saying anything, this was the most honest he's been since they've met.

"I'm sorry." Crane said, voice cutting the quiet. He could be sorry for a number of things—she could roll a dice and pick one. Abbie looked away; her chest tightened.

"I know."

It was strangely pivotal, this moment. To outsiders, it was an immaterial lull between battle weary partners. Hell, her brain couldn't even process it in words or proper thoughts, but rather heightened wisps of emotion and fleeting images (like a fog finally cleared and the weak morning sun shone through a break in the clouds.) She couldn't understand what it meant—this tacit revelation about _who_ he was or _what_ he meant to her—and she didn't think she wanted to. Not then.

"The enforcements are arriving." he warned. She didn't hear anything, but Crane's ears were keener than hers.

"You have to go." He didn't budge. "They'll have questions. Ones you can't answer." _And you can? _She could almost hear him say in a concerned voice. She felt for him in the dark, grasped his fingers and then curled them into her palm.

"I'll be fine." She was a bigger liar than Judas.

He didn't look remotely convinced—maybe his empathy could see right through her or her lie was as transparent as she thought it was—but seeing his presence would cause more harm than help, he fled the house and sped away in his car.

Police cars barreled down the street, lights flashing and sirens whirring. An ambulance towed behind just seconds behind. They screeched to a stop at the blockade created by the fallen tree. Abbie scrambled to her feet and threw the door open, running into pelting rain. She waved her hand furiously above her head. Four officers poured out the cars, the two in the front bounding up to her with their guns cocked and shoulders tense. She soon recognized them as Reyes and Luke.

"_Shit_—Abbie, you're bleeding! _Hey_!" She was spun around by her shoulders—a bad idea for someone recently concussed—and held tightly by the arm. Luke waved for the medics, but Abbie gave him a hard look.

"It's not my blood." She quickly lied. This silenced him for a beat.

In record time, the medics had Macey strapped to a gurney, oxygen mask over her face and loaded her into the emergency truck. They blared the sirens and raced out the neighborhood. She just hoped they could make it to the hospital on time. The other two officers began scouring the wreckage with their flashlights, a rolled tent in one's arm.

"Where the hell is the perp?" Reyes hissed.

"Don't know."

"How many were there?"

"Couldn't see."

"How the hell did you end up several streets from where you radioed in?"

"I ran."

"You're being difficult and evasive, _lieutenant_." She stressed her title, almost to remind her that her position she refrain her from lying.

"Can we at least give her a minute before questioning?" his tone grew louder as he spoke, frustration and defensive anger causing this inflection. "She just went through a lotta' shit, she's probab—"

"She can get her minute on the way to the station. We're doing this formally. The right way."

"This is _Abbie _we're talking about here. She's the damn lieutenant; we don't needthe interrogation room or the cameras or the mind games to get the truth from her!"

"Stand down, Morales." She hissed warningly. "This isn't your call."

Luke clenched his jaw together, but was neutered by Reye's position. Abbie swallowed, ducking into the police car with a heart made of lead and throat of barbwires.

**v.**

"How are you doing?"

"My captain's daughter was sent to the ICU under my care. We haven't heard from the hospital in an hour and this is possibly the worst day of my entire life. I'm feeling hunky-dory."

"What about a cup of water?"

"Can we cut the bullshit already?"

The interrogation room was nothing but a cold, metallic box. There was one dim light buzzing above the table. Reyes sat on the opposite side of the desk, a few manila folders beside her. Next to her, an agent stood soundlessly and emotionlessly. Behind the one-way-mirror, a cluster of detectives and police stood, observing, analyzing, and taking notes.

It was her mother's trail on repeat.

She was getting a full-blown interrogation, _Law &amp; Order_ style. Most people would call a lawyer or scream bloody murder about their Fifth Amendment rights, but that was incriminating. Like many things in her life, she had to do this alone.

However, Abbie knew what to expect. She knew about the light starter questions to ease the detainee (which she frankly was, if she was honest with herself; they skipped the whole handcuffs bit, but she was definitely in police custody.) She knew the layout of the room was designed to maximize her discomfort and anxiety—the hard, plastic chair, being out of reach to any switches or thermostats, the disagreeable temperature of the room. She knew about the nine steps of Reid's interrogation and the whole lot.

A fission of tension ran up her spine anyway. She wasn't dealing with a no-name detective called in from a neighboring county, but a woman who spent fifteen years as detective sergeant of the CID unit in Los Angeles. She obviously must've been _damn good _at her job before, because she now took up the position as Executive Assistant Director of the National Security Branch.

This was an entirely new ballgame of expertise and ruthlessness.

Abbie wiped her clammy hands against her beige pants. The officers allowed her to change out of the bloody, soaked clothes and into the extra police uniform in the back. She knew the gesture was just a way to gather her clothes, which was chockful of DNA that would blow a hole through any lies she told Reyes. She hoped the mysterious vigilante would show their face again.

"Alright, fine." Reyes shrugged, unfazed by Abbie's sarcasm and cursing. There was no point in trying to establish a rapport—it was four a.m. and neither was in a mood to play. "How did you discover the disappearance of Macey Irving?"

"I woke up sometime around three a.m., swept the house and couldn't find her. I searched the foyer and found the door left open. She's not the sneaking out type, so I figured something was up."

"And you just miraculously _woke _up at three in the morning?"

"Insomnia."

"How did you come to the conclusion to call for back up?"

She almost rolled her eyes at this. "I've spent the last six months investigating disappearances and their 'crime' scenes. There were no signs of struggle, no indication that someone entered the house. Macey fits the mold for the disappearances—smart, young, athletic. It made sense."

"What was the next thing you did immediately after calling dispatcher?"

"I ran out and searched for her."

"For how long?"

"Five to ten minutes."

Reyes rose an eyebrow. "Five to ten minutes?"

"Yes."

"Your insomnia woke you up just minutes after Macey disappeared? You're _really_ lucky." Abbie held her tongue. "What happened when you found her?"

"I tried to take her home."

"Tried?" Reyes was starting to sound like a parrot.

"There was a…a man with her. Somebody that she knew. She wouldn't come with me."

This was the part she was going to have the most difficulty abridging to omit the supernatural elements. She already felt her tongue tying.

"Why wouldn't she leave with you?"

"I…I don't know."

"And who was this man?"

"Couldn't see."

"I thought you said Macey isn't the sneaking out type?"

"She isn't."

Reyes paused thoughtfully. "Were there any others?"

"One other, as far as I could tell. They snuck up on me and tackled me. I guess they weren't expecting me to find her, so they aborted the plan and attacked her too. They took off running right after."

"Did they use any weapons?"

_Aside from razor sharp claws designed to tear through titanium?_

"Nothing I could see."

"And there were no get-away cars? These people decided to move on foot?"

"No, and yes."

"How did you get into the house we found you in? It's vacant and there was a deadbolt on it."

"I shouldered it open."

"Do you have any shoulder injuries to show for it?"

"Like you said, I'm _really _lucky."

"And this crime is supposed to be connected to the others?" she hummed, folding her fingers underneath her chin. "Two people taking a child, traipsing through the streets during a thunderstorm, then breaking out running once they were discovered?"

"It could be a poorly attempted copycat crime."

"What about the wreckage surrounding the house? The short-circuited powerlines?"

"It was a really bad storm."

Reyes spent a solid minute scrutinizing Abbie. After a long blink, she opened her mouth.

"How are you doing?"

Abbie resisted sucking her teeth.

"I thought I already answered this."

"I'm talking about recently, as in the past couple of months. Since the disappearance cases began."

Abbie's brow pinched together. This was strange, this sudden change in direction.

"It's been stressful, but it's the usual."

"Usual? I wouldn't exactly say so." Abbie's unease amplified. "Your friends and coworkers don't seem to think it's very usual." She flipped through the clipboard. "'Panicky, depressive, sad, aloof. Doesn't each much food, is losing weight—"

"What the hell does this have to do with Macey?"

"Huh. Somebody even said you've been 'out of it' lately. My agents probably should've got this guy to elaborate, it's not a very clear statement, but I guess I get the gist of it." She said, ignoring her.

"And what're you trying to say?"

"A lot of things. Nothing. Everything." She was just as elusive as Crane. Reyes grabbed a paper from the stack of files beside her. She briefly thumbed through it before settling on a page. "You know, your family has a pretty extensive list of mental illnesses. Like it's shocking, really, how far back this goes. For as long as these things have been documented, there's been some form of schizoaffective disorder in your direct line. Delirium, catatonia, Creutzfeldt-Jakob disease—and that's just a few of them.

"Your mother is schizophrenic and she murdered a man in her neighborhood. Six years before that, she'd taken up a _very_ unorthodox form of Christianity with borderline Pagan-like practices, but I'm sure you know this."

"How does this correlate?" Abbie knew where this was going, but she wanted Reyes to say it.

"I've been getting a direct feed from the crime scenes to my laptop since CSI arrived, Mills. Oddly enough, Irving's home is covered in occult signs—nine so far—and unless I'm to believe a sixteen-year-old girl started dabbling in hoodoo, that leaves you. And you _did _draw them, correct?"

She swallowed hard. "Yes."

Reyes nodded slowly. "The back of your clothes were completely torn to bits earlier, and I couldn't help but see some strange things on your skin. Would you mind if I had a look?"

_Fuck._

Abbie achingly moved to her feet, turned around and pulled the back of her shirt up.

"Is that mutilation?"

"Yes."

There was a missed beat.

"You can sit." She glanced at Abbie, then to her files, the back to her. "You know that schizophrenia is one of the few mental illnesses that are hereditary, right?"

"I don't have _schizophrenia_."

"I'm not a psychiatrist. I can't accurately tell you what kind of issues you do or do not have on my own. However, I have documentation _from _psychiatrists about what you _do _have. I mean, religious trauma, dissociative amnesia, and PTSD—those don't exactly make for the best recounting, do they?"

"So you think I'm making this whole thing up?"

"Your story doesn't make sense, Lieutenant. You were the only person there that we can confirm was at the crime scene so far, you were the only one to track down Macey, and the only one we saw in the empty house. The would-be kidnappers are nowhere in sight, and it seems especially ludicrous that they could get anywhere during a _storm_ on _foot_. Maybe you had a bigger role in this than you reali—"

"Oh, I see," She said with a humorless chuckle. "You think that I'm following my mom's footsteps, huh? First I lose my shit, then I pick up some weird religious addiction, then I try to _murder _someone? And then I forgot I did any of it and confabulated the entire story?"

"It seems likely."

"It seems like _bullshit_."

"I don't you're fit to be an officer."

The wind left her system in a listless exhale. Her muscles and tensed and if her heart beat any faster, she was going into cardiac arrest.

"…what?"

"I didn't think it'd have to come to this, but this situation has gone completely out-of-hand. I understand your late Captain Corbin had utmost trust and faith in you, so much that he made you an officer to _begin _with, but you being a serving member of this department is in violation of several codes. It's a hazard.

"You didn't carry through psychiatric treatment after the court advised you to and stopped picking up your prescriptions after a year. You have a long history of misconduct and drug charges—with this alone, you shouldn't even be permitted to have a firearm, let alone command an entire force of this city's protectors." Reyes slapped the files down on the desk, her all-pervading eyes steadily trained on Abbie. "I've spoken to Irving about this transgression when I did a background check, but he insisted on keeping you here. He said that you've 'recuperated.' For the most part, monitoring who does and does not make it into the police force isn't my jurisdiction, but this level of malpractice is unacceptable." She took in a deep breath. "I want you to resign."

"Resign?" now it was her turn to uselessly parrot words.

"It's the cleanest way to do this without putting this whole department under public fire and opening the door to department-wide investigations. The people of this town are already shaken enough as it is, the _last_ thing they need is to question whether their officers are even fit to their jobs correctly." Her face became deadly serious. "I will give you a week to resign. However, if you don't meet the deadline and continue to operate as a lieutenant, I will be forced to take this up to the board and terminate your position officially and _openly_. Your choice."

Before, she and Reyes held a respectable acquaintance. They hardly saw each other and had a few brief conversations, but there was, at least, a baseline of civility present each time. Tonight, however, that "baseline of civility" turned into the Flavian Amphitheatre. Something changed between then and now, and she didn't have the slightest clue what is was.

"You want me out, then fine, I'm out. I resign."

"I'm glad you chose the best decis—"

"Why were you investigating me?"

"Excuse me?"

"You were investigating my files. You had your agents collect statements and dug into my family's psychiatric history—that isn't something you do without a reason of suspicion or instigation. So _what was it_?" There was an ulterior motive and she could feel it in her gut. Something wasn't right.

Reyes schooled her features and gathered her thing and closed her laptop.

"Interrogation ceased. I expect an official document of resignation, but you're free to go."

"Agent Reyes!" Abbie hissed, standing up so quickly her chair knocked over. "What the hell was it?! _Reyes_!"

But she kept walking, undeterred. She didn't spare her a glance as she closed the metal door behind her, leaving absolutely nothing for Abbie to cling to anymore.

**A/N: I want to say the next chapter will come out faster, but I have the uncanny ability to do the exact opposite, so let's just hope for the best. Reviews and feedback appreciated!**


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